Unforgiven

Unforgiven

In the dim light of an old London street,
where the sky bruises beneath a smudged coat of grey,
the name Unforgiven whispers on‑hand like a
forgotten back‑pocketed card — a story waiting
to be heard but never told.

They call it the one who refuses to turn the page,
the one who keeps a hole in the tradition of

pardon, of favour that, once passed,
cannot be given back.
In our polite society we applaud apology,
but here the applause fades into a sigh
that echoes off red‑brick walls.

The man in hansom, the kid in a schooltyred
boot, the grandmothers whispering,
all stare at the wound left untended.
They speak of honour and dues,
yet the wound is a question, not a debt to be paid.

There are no nodding heads, no perfunctory,
“Accept my sincere apologies,”
just a vacant glass of tea,
its steam curling as if to escape,
a silent confession of regret that never drifts away.

He sits beneath a flickering marquee of
past glories, the city humming,
the night away, the gentle clatter of the lanes.
He tells himself that forgiveness should have been
a footnote in the ledger of time,
but it has become a red ink line,
an unfinished sentence in a biscuit‑broken lunch box.

Sometimes I imagine him, out of step on the relentless song of
the tram, a lorry rumbling by, a distant change of the
channel on the television of his own guilt,
the Thames somewhere in the background, indifferent.
There is no recompense, no soul‑clearing programme,
only the echo of a once‑self‑forgiveness that never arrived.

In the quiet light of that alleyway, the word
Unforgiven is not an accusation but a quiet, bone‑deep lament,
a recollection of what we let to remain unspoken,
of the tears that are never whispered,
of the relief never found; the colour in our world
only partially washed, partially left to fade.