Murderers
He was my best and oldest friend.
I’d known him all my life.
And yet I’m sure towards the end
He knew I loved his wife,
And wonder, wonder if it’s why
He came so dreadfully to die.
He drove his car at racing speed
And crashed into a tree.
How could he have so little heed?
A skillful driver he.
I think he must have found that day
Some love—letters that went astray.
I looked into the woman’s eyes
And there I saw she knew.
There was no shadow of surmise, —
For her himself he slew:
That he might leave her free to wed
The “me” she worshipped in his stead.
She whispered as she bade me go:
“I think he found us out.”
And in her face the hate and woe
Was his revenge, no doubt.
Life cannot link us . . . though glad—green
His grave —he stands between.
Other works by Robert W. Service...
