A white cross, stark, incongruous, nailed to a roadside pole: the once proud hardwood trunk, a monument now in this hallowed place. Its towering dark grey length, with pitch-blackened base, encircled by tufts of struggling grass, seems in empathy with the withered flowers, still wrapped in silver foil, which lie upon the addled ground. Who died, who grieves, who placed the once fresh blooms? What solace have they found, they, the victims, left behind to mourn their loss? Will their sorrow ease in time? Is there anger with the pain, directed at the one who died, now gone with no goodbye? Or, is the anger aimed much higher, at some omnipotent callous power, that chose the day, the very second in the hour, to take the life, the grieved for soul, remembered by this roadside pole.