Loss
An English fish now swims through fresh blood.
A young life, barely abloom.
The child’s last sight was that wretched rudd.
By the stream she fixed her press stud,
Ne’er seeing from whom would come her doom.
An English fish now swims through fresh blood.
She played merrily, stopped to sniff a flower bud,
Until her gasp echoed through the deep flume.
The child’s last sight was that wretched rudd.
Attacked and killed by a demon in cold blood,
Not ten years from her mother’s womb.
An English fish now swims through fresh blood.
Her attempts to flee were at best a mere dud.
A fall into the stream and it became her tomb.
The child’s last sight was that wretched rudd.
The fear and confusion, the pain – a flash flood.
Her soul pure and innocent, calling the demon to consume.
An English fish now swims through fresh blood;
The child’s last sight was the wretched rudd.