car's wheel struck it, did not slow,
hobbled the rabbit towards the grounds keeper,
in blue overalls bent down to pick it up,
and taking it in his arms,
for half a moment I thought he'd cradle it,
soothe it or something,
then, his hands oil stained, passing
a roll up to his mate, he pulled the rabbit's neck.
I ran, yes I cried out and then ran, towards the act,
shouted 'leave it, you bastard!'
It gave a squeak as he pulled the neck,
the brown it was, flecked with the white of the winter
we hadn't had and the gold of harvested fields,
was a young brown and its colour flew through the air
as the murderer flung it into a bush,
then took the roll up back from his mate.
when I got there, I doubt he'd heard my shout,
I wanted to look in the bush and what, pick it up,
be with it at its end, but then I heard the grind
of the bus' engine coming to a halt at my stop.
'It's dead' I told myself, and waving
towards the driver, who smoking looked my way,
I jogged for the bus, then could not shake the sound
of that rabbit's dying for days.