In my profession, I’ve always wondered what it would have been like,
To commit shameless crimes, prosper in injustice, to live a lie,
Like a farmer who strived to lead a simple, still life,
But was this eternal solitude truly beneficial, wholesome and right?
No man should be an island, or an alien to the public eye.
The homely items cast across the kitchen table gave me an insight into his living,
His straw hat and old shirt symbolised devotion to his livelihood, now only fit for kindling,
The old-fashioned kettle that provided his well-deserved cup of tea in the evening,
His faraway neighbours would never have suspected he’d be the victim of a thieving,
It’s a sad pity so few people would express regret or be grieving.
He would continue to lock himself away in his own little world forever,
Whether he threw away the key or not, no one would help him open up, or endeavour,
The years had been catching up with him, his skin was now as tough as leather,
His ignored collection of overdue bills would have driven him to the end of his tether,
And yet, he couldn’t speak out about his troubles, he was too under the weather.
A private, diligent man who had never done anyone, but himself, any harm,
Being too bashful or secluded from other people to raise the alarm,
He’d been reluctant to let the light in, he’d always been a man living in the dark,
If only it hadn’t been too late to save him when those crooks burgled his farm,
His fragile heart gave way under the pressure, so here I am, just a policeman doing his part,
Still, life goes on, but this story will stay with me in my heart.