The ArkA Poem by David Lewis Paget‘You
sinners all will be damned to hell,’ He
roared in the empty church, His
hair was wild, he never smiled The
vicar of Bromley Birch, The
congregation the church had had Were
laid out under their stones, Whatever
sins were unshriven, still Were
left in a pile of bones. He’d
lost parishioners one by one As
they all grew old and died, He’d
sent them off with a final view Of
what hell was like, inside, He’d
stirred the sulphur and brimstone there Like
a witch with a cooking pot, And
sent them off with a sermon, cursed, Whether
they’d go, or not. The
youngsters wandered from Bromley Birch To
pay their dues by the sea, Down
at the church by Donnington Where
they’d not see Vicar Tree, The
Synod muttered and mumbled then, Put
Bromley up for sale, ‘The
only thing that will draw them there Is
a bar where they sell brown ale!’ So
Tree delved into his savings and He
bought the ancient church, And
thought to set up a cult where he Could
rant and rave and lurch, He’d
never favoured the gospels, he Preferred
the ancient book, The
sins of the older testament Where
the Devil would be the hook. But
no-one came, to his mortal shame And
the roof began to leak, The
doors came away from their hinges, and The
rates were due in a week, He
cast about for a purpose And
he read the old book twice, He
read the story of Noah’s Ark And
he thought: ‘That would be nice!’ He
sought the views of a carpenter And
they gathered up the pews, Old
Jack Molloy said the wood was good, There
was plenty they could use. They
built the ark on a minor scale To
suit the building’s size, With
the tiller back in the vestry and The
gunnels along the aisles. ‘You
won’t get too many elephants On
this,’ said Jack Molloy, ‘Giraffes
will hit on the crossbeams…’ (He
just said it to annoy). ‘We
won’t be taking no elephants, Just
ducks and pigs and sheep, A
couple of geese and a goat or two, And
anything we can eat!’ For
Tree thought Noah had gone too far, ‘Why
take things to be bred, Like
cats and rats and dogs and mice That
just need to be fed? The
spiders we could do well without, The
same for snakes and snails, I’ve
never fancied their escargot Nor
frogs, nor cow’s entrails.’ His
wife was sent to collect the stock As
the ark grew long and tall, She
even smuggled some rabbits on Though
Tree said, ‘None at all!’ He
went outside and he scanned the skies And
looked for the God of old, Who’d
flood and blast the blasphemies Of
those who wouldn’t be told. ‘Just
send her down,’ said the Vicar Tree, ‘You’ve
done it once before, This
world is full of a sinning breed, So
now you can even the score.’ The
rain began on the seventh day As
a gentle April shower, But
then was born a thunderous storm That
flooded down by the hour. The
little old church of Bromley Birch Lies
hidden, down in a dip, And
water poured from the higher ground Flooded
the old church crypt, Tree
climbed aboard with his dutiful wife Said,
‘Let the heavens flow!’ And
watched as the waters flooded in, Floating
them down below. The
waters rose at a deadly pace And
he thought the world was drowned, The
carpenter went the other way, And
climbed to higher ground, It
took just over an hour to fill The
church, from roof to floor, But
Tree was drowned by the time he found He’d
forgotten to widen the door. David
Lewis Paget © 2013 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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