I don’t recall which came first the impact or the thud.
I don’t know if I couldn’t see first or I couldn’t hear but
I remember the blood.
The way it’s cells marshalled all over my leg,
led by little red and white generals heading to a pointless funeral.
It’s the little things you remember when shock hits.
She was wearing a cream bra. I could see it through her loose fit.
She’d tried to steer away, her lip she’d bit.
I can’t not see her – In my head she sits.
Her eyes are blue and catch mine briefly.
I spin after the impact and leave the ground beneath me.
There’s a crunch and she’s gone as the car spins and nothing rhymes anymore.
I want to go back to seeing her face the way it was before.
Their was a bloody mist of rain where I’d fell.
Scattered raindrops of me everywhere.
Quite poetic for a major injustice.
Six months later I’d still be on crutches.
They wanted me to sit because I couldn’t stand.
People stopped to watch.
It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t planned.
They pulled her out.
I can still hear the screeching metal.
Smell the rubber and see the flashing lights.
It wasn’t quite day and it wasn’t quite night.
Therapy was offered.
I explained I wasn’t bothered by anything apart from her lack of movement,
like she’d somehow lost a light.
They told me it would pass in time,
but she still talks to me at night.
Copyright G.P WIlliamson 2017