Whitechapel C1887 Poem by Mary Champion

An emptiness drifts across the cobblestones.
The street light looms yellow through the smog.
Skulking in the shadows, a tall silhouette -
dark as the heart that beats within it. -
It wears an air of unnatural stillness.

The church clock strikes ten.
Still! - No movement!
Ten- thirty!
Still - no movement!

A slight figure emerges from a side-street.
A woman?
She wears a nervous, watchful air -
as if some part of her knew...

In the shadows, a tall silhouette makes a rapid movement -
in the upraised hand - a blade.
For the first time - he strikes!