THE MURDERER’S FATE

By John Grey

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The setting sun parts 
the leafy branches
of the makeshift gallows,
spotlights the one bough
where evil swings in stillness.

A broken neck
tilts the head to one side,
as torso slumps,
legs dangle,
dour eyes stare down
at the scene of his stolen shoes.

Twilight sparkles 
the half-molted forest.
The moon
rises vast and orange.

No longer the last refuge
of the devil incarnate,
the body glows
with all the village prayers
that put it there.