Narrow street
cobbled path
he walks alone
a figure of shadows
past whispers
fleeting glances
closing windows
smouldered lamps
the clip clop of his steps
louder than the midnight bells
and the hessian sack
dragged over blue granite
juiced with blood
records a red stain in its wake
leading back to a terrace
with the door burst from its hinges
inside
a table tossed over
bookcase upended
papers scattered
now in the scullery
resting on shattered plates
lies a mans severed head
still looking slightly stressed
that his prisoner had rushed him
up from his cellar
full with coal stacks
and a chair
covered with frayed strands of hemp
where he had been kept
for many days
and the man now headless
was the town doctor
who spoke of smallpox
and the greater good
each time he drew blood
or injected something into him
now the prisoner did not know why
he was covered in lesions
but for the time being
he was going home
his pigs would be hungry
and he had a sack full
of fresh meat
Ground to Ground 
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