Red or Dead

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Repetition. Repetition. Repetition. After the harvest, the failed harvest. Before the harvest, the next harvest. The man knocked on the door.

Come, said a voice from behind the door.

The man opened the door. The man stepped into the room. The man stood in the room. Before the long table, the long shadows.

Sit, said a voice from the shadows.

The man sat down in a chair at the end of the long table.

Yes, asked the voice.

The man blinked. The man tried to keep the tears from his eyes. The man swallowed. The man tried to keep his voice from breaking. And the man said, You are right. The strain has proved much too much. I am tired. And I cannot go on. I have had enough.

Close the door on your way out.

The man tried to stand. The man tried to get back on his feet. But the man could not stand. The man could not get back on his feet.

In the winter-time, in the night-time, they remembered him. And then they came to him. In the winter-time, in the night-time. Not cap in hand, not on bended knee. Not this sort. But still they came. Here to Leeds Road, Huddersfield. Here on October 17, 1959. They came –

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