He left his sparrows waiting at the door
And entered like a draught, his bare feet treading
Silent on the wetness of the floor;
And, lifting up his hand, approached the pen
Where patiently his brothers waited for
The second coming of the slaughtermen;
And like a draught his love went over them.
And they saw nothing but his upraised hand,
Knew nothing but the death that it would bring;
And looked, and waited for the blow to land.
And silently, the men appeared, and swept
The floor, and strewed it with an inch of sand.
And Francis fell upon his knees, and wept.
And like a draught his love went over them.
By Jonathan Steffen
First published in Resurgence, January/February 1995
