In the news it emerged that he had died,
David Rathband, gratuitously dubbed Raoul
Moat’s last victim, up till then had belied
Any such thing, the victor in survival,
outliving the gunman, a hero to all.
Shot at point-blank range, blinded in both eyes,
At the scene of the crime he had feigned death,
To cheat it, carried from the scene, to rise
Triumphant, tall, erect, the spirit to fight;
Alas, to lose everything, once in sight.
He found new meaning in living for others,
His visual darkness dispelled in the light
Of charity, only as metaphors;
Just a novice in an acquired plight
That took years and years to his overnight.
He lost patience, and the tide broke his sea
Defences, one night, it would not recede,
Rope in his hand, it claimed his destiny;
They cannot blame him for his final deed:
He saw his only recourse, to be freed.