The Sniper died at home

clutching his stuttering chest,

the wind was westerly

his vision not the best.

 

Used to be he’d slow the beat

tunnel down his broader view,

the crosshairs steady, resting neat

then squeeze the trigger gently through.

 

He clawed and clutched his ragged dog

no words escaped his gaping mouth,

her paws still clogged with peaty bog

the finest of The County Louth.

 

He didn’t spin or pirouette

no exit wound to stain the ground,

one final moment of regret?

no proof of it was ever found.

 

His macabre pin-ballesque demise

unnoticed in a border town.

While The Master Sniper of the Skies

breathed in and laid his rifle down.