β
Dying Hours by Stewart Stafford
All debts were settled on Christmas Eve,
Fail to do so, and thereβd be no reprieve,
In the dying flame of a guttering candle,
Monies got paid, and cash got handled.
When the last customer left to journey home,
Quinn, the shop owner, found himself alone,
He stared at pooling shadows, no one there,
Told himself to hurry, be with those who care.
As he closed up, something screamed out,
A figure from out of the dark began to shout,
A man with no eyes begged alms for the dead,
Or any old soup with a thick slice of bread.
Quinn said he was a business, not a charity,
The manβs eyes opened with some clarity,
βVery well,β the man said, βNothingβs free,β
βIβll drag your soul to Hell, come with me!β
Β© Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.
β
β