The Butchers Garden

I hear them tremble in the early morning winds,
They know what Saturday mornings mean.
So the birds sing songs of sorrow as Saturday morning dawns,
Fir those who are to become victims at the end of the butchers yawn.

I lay in bed awake listening for the slow dragging of his feet.
Each footstep still heavy with sleep.
As he heads towards his arsenal,
Silent cries of horror.
I lay in bed listening.
Wind carrying the voices of his victims whispering.
None sure if who will be cut off this weekend.

He cuts and slices with such ferocity,
Standing back to admire his work.
His would be victims praying that he is pleased,
If not it could be them that lay at his feet.
He walks briskly now, this cleanse had finally woken him,
All that's left is for the dead to be cleaned.
I wait in the kitchen for my father the butcher, he is done for the weekend.
Garden grooming I've termed killing season.