they fought on the road,
so I waited, car running,
’til they moved to the sidewalk.
I parked
they battled,
I entered the pub,
they moved to the carpark.
I saw them next,
him standing over her
landing fist after fist
while I mapped out
the notes of a dark ale:
coffee,
chocolate, and,
-punch-
roasted – punch –
roasted – punch, scream –
roasted marshmallow.
I saw it all
and a small voice inside
invited me to
offer chips and a chat
when he took a short breather
from beating her.
but my mind ran ahead,
to a fictitious future
and the little voice said:
what happens next’s
a blank canvas.
so I brushed over
the invitation
with a light fog of fear
and layers of opaque excuses,
but the red marks on her body
bled through all that grey
turned it purpley- blue like a bruise.
he was busy flinging pigment
with doubled up brushes,
raven-dark anger,
and vomit self-loathing,
a collapsing black-hole of destruction.
I added some layers and splashes of shame –
– that most rancid of colours –
which consumingly spread
‘cross the page
while the cops
washed the place
red-flashing-blue.
but they couldn’t fix
her body,
his mind,
my heart,
and they faded
with the flick
of an interior switch.
I tried hosing it all
with a fresh pint of beer,
but it turned everything brackish
as it ran down the canvas,
and mixed with her tears,
in a nauseating mess on the floor.
we rolled in that muck
as we slept
a most uneasy sleep –
she in the park,
he in the watch-house,
me in an orthopaedic bed.
I awoke at 3,
to white-wash it all
with freshly-dredged promises:
I’ll be different next time
I’ll act when you ask me
I’ll stand up and speak.
but I’ve failed those commitments
more times than I’ve made them,
they don’t hold
in the frame
of life
anymore.
so I lay there,
exhausted, spent, silent.
and the small voice inside
invited the crying
and told me I’d missed
the wildest
part of the story:
that
through every
second
of our shared thirty minutes
we were
held
in the Father’s embrace.
we were cherished
surrounded
loved by
and hoped for
wept over
and cried for
through every
long drawn-out
second
of our shared thirty minutes.
I paused
and I looked –
the picture was different.
still horrid,
still messy,
but different.
it was lightly re-framed,
with dashes of hope seeping through.
– Fremantle, 19-11-2019
patmos 
Loved it when you performed this the other night, and enjoyed it more on a timely re-read in quiet. Nice one, brother.
Hey Simon,
Thanks for the encouragement – and thanks for sharing your gift of music as well, it helped make it a lovely night of conversation and reflection. Cheers, Clint.
Beautifully poetic Clint. Made me cry. What a dreadful experience. Life is so broken. Sending love your way…xo
Hey Roze,
Ah. My goal of sharing it was to encourage others that when we don’t do what we know we should do, we’re no less loved 🙂 I find writing this sort of stuff helpful for processing my thoughts and putting it in a place of rest. So I’m sorry if it did the opposite for you – but yes, it was an incredibly sad situation, mostly for her, but also for us other two – there was something terribly sub-human about the whole thing. One day it will be put right though. One day…
Thank you for sharing your heart, Clinton. You are not alone, in this experience of horror, shame and amazing encircling patient love.
Brueggemann in a recent interview said: “God energises human agency! Powers and principalities will yield when empowered and authourised by God. We ordinary Christians share the same scripture, same traditions, same vision and the same work to do (as the martyrs) – don’t fear assassination by your enemies or your friends.
Dear Ushie,
Thanks for having a read, and I can’t help imagine that if you were there I would have been following your short-but-fiercely-gentle-and-loving person out there. Much love to you and Colin – be sure to pop down to Perth again sometime soon!
The guilt …. is overwhelming. … I’ve been there too …. with a greater fear for myself than for the well-being of others. Please God …. make us bold when we need to.
Hey Dad,
Yes and yes again!
What a fantastic hope we have,also the people in the poem.Here,for the grace of God,go I!
Amen! That’s where I landed at the end of writing this piece. God’s love and grace is bigger and deeper than I typically dare dream…