The Watchers

The children felt the eyes
burning down into their backs.
They turned and saw three statues
down by the crossed tracks.

Their legs were thin and sharp,
their heads were bronze blocks.
The children grasped their courage,
took aim with dirt and rocks.

Stones clanged off the metal,
mud sucked the faceless grins.
The children kept-up their assault,
then heard a malefic din.

A droning from the statues,
a blade scrapes teeth in a jaw,
a sound so full of hatred that
the children dropped down to the floor.

They quivered as the snow fell
on this bone-October night
the statues gawped, sightless,
as the moon began to bright.

The children’s knees were knocking,
tears juggling from their eyes
the statues kept up their stare,
eager for their prize.

One child ventured nearer
though fear told her to flee.
The statues’ gazes deepened
each peered more hungrily.

She ventured a hand to feel
the bronze-black shining skin.
The statues tensed to the touch,
the girl felt her finger sting.

A smudge of red barely visible
amongst the metal and the mud.
The children fled, screaming
the girl sucked at the blood.

The statues on the crossed tracks
had hoped the children would linger.
They rippled as they savoured
the taste of that girl’s finger.

The statues are always watching
from the tracks upon the hill
they sing for flesh and blood.
They’re out there singing still.