The Wheatstone Pond

The murky water sits still upon the surface
A distorted reflection stares vacantly into your sunken eyes
It’s been near a decade since you last saw this place
Watched the willows weep as you sent her to the depths of her grave

Drag the lake in search for past mistakes
Winter-bare bones and condemned doll houses
The forensic team is waiting patiently at the edge
To match blemished teeth and soggy clumps of blonde hair

The cuffs bit hungrily into scarred wrists
As you gave directions from the plastic-coated back seat
The smell of gas station coffee wafts teasingly through the caged wall
Their subtle smiles hinting that they don’t honestly believe
And if they did it’s certainly not in atonement

The cell is cold, the steel bench unforgiving beneath your backside
A tattered thrift store bible rests hopefully upon your thigh
Head lowered, prayers spill from your bruised lips
It’s in this barren room that you will serve the remainder of your days
God have mercy on your poor soul

The title of this piece is borrowed from the novel of Robert Westall's of the same name.