Green was her dress as she skipped along,

And green the band in her hair.

Green was the man on the crossing light

As she walked across, unaware that

Red was the light that faced the car,

And red was the rage of the man inside

“Damn and blast that woman to hell” he cried

As he drove straight on and only stopped

When he felt the bump, and the torn green dress

Flew over his car and hit the ground,

The green now red, with limbs askew.

That fragile spark called life was gone

And green was the grass on her grave.

© Gillian Peall

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