The 11th Hour Poem by Haley Smutzer

The News spread throughout the town
In a sea of whirling whispers
Mulling through the air in a heavy wave of secrets
Though I- I was last to hear

It was the heat of a persistent summer
Our thistle bound roof barely stood
Teetering atop its jagged walls
Tainted with mold and time

Trails of hay and broken bottles of curd
Jutted outward from the panes- Evidence of our living
At dusk they came along the matted road
Their sullen expressions timeless and still

Though unlike the Millers who wept and
Sweeping the sorrow away with a brush
Lingered on the details- tragic and mournful
We- the Farmers- did not

Unlike the Carpenters who grunted with protest
Grasping their blades with a curt vengeance
And cursing the misfortunes of time and fate
We- the Farmers- did not

Unlike the Shoemakers who winced and shook
Taking care to close their blinds amid the night
Their knuckles turning white with fear
We- the Farmers- did not

Unlike the sultry merchants who rolled their eyes
Glancing down at their watches and keeping close to their hull
Never to be bothered with tasteless thoughts
We- the Farmers- did not

Mother and Father murmured a regrettable condolence
Nodding in their own still fashion
Stiff and Odd
Peering through the window- as if waiting

One would not expect a gruesome murder
Least of all atop the lively PineCrest Hill
Laden with growth and sunlit flowers
Beckoning the children of the town whereas they often played

The city so quaint and simple
Burst with the energy of a jittering gossip
Raw with suspicion and fear
Eyeing each other with contempt and vicious wonderment

Yet the question lingered throughout the Night
Pressing its weighted grasp heavily atop the City’s slumber
Drifting through our thoughts in waves of fright and wind
Who killed the Kendrick’s son?

They found his body sodden and cold
Left beneath the daunting cover of a pine
His sickly frame skewed and changed
The violent wounds agape for all to see

The School yard lit with the clamor of a shocking crime
As thoughts took on a violent nature
It wasn’t long before the wager revealed its tempting call
Who would be first to make their way- returning back to PineCrest Hill?

So at the 11th hour of a threatening night
I found myself aching with thought
My steps heavy and weary with fright
As I made my way towards PineCrest Hill

Brushing aside the foliage
Mangled by storm and debris
The underbrush whistled and groaned
Its jagged briar crackling in warning

A thin smog hovered
Trailing atop the misty hill
Lingering in a frozen moment
Captured in a breathy stillness

Then- the absence of all sound
As if the world had naturally preserved the scene
The deserted shed stood barren and slanted
Alone and unchanged as it creaked with age atop the dewy grass

My eyes grazed the hillside
As I watched in unspoken wonderment
Knowing that this-
Would be his untimely forever

What had I done?