Death wakes at every hour. Walking the streets at night. Crouched in the shade of ancient oaks. Patient. Delicate. Gracious. You are cruel and brutal, we say, when fires rage and sweep away innocents. You have no mercy, we say, when plague runs deep in the veins of our kin. You are evil, we say, when Death takes an unborn child and mother too. Not so, says Death. Speak to my brothers. Conquest, Pestilence, and War. They are the patriarchs of these travesties. Even then, they are simple conduits for your will. Our will? We say, why would we visit such doom upon ourselves? Death says, it is a mystery I myself cannot fathom. Why do you? I know only that it is I who must clean up the mess afterwards. You are peering down the wrong end of the corridor.
Paddy Dobson
9th March 2021