Rotting pulp at a busy roadside
like a grim bouqet growing from grit;
smashed bone like petals
scattered over
rosy entrails
lavender tinted kidneys,
orange muscle
and curls of wet sinew.
Rest in pieces
furry thing with no head,
as cars and buses dance past
onward into life.
Few passers by will mourn
leaving oil to mix with drying blood
and hairy swarms.
Cheery pip our mangled friend
departed by hurrying engines
into eternal hedgerows...
@Steven Francis poems 2009
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