Two PigeonsA Poem by David Lewis PagetThe farm at Little Rottingdeane Lay fallow for a year, Since Cromwell’s Ironsides had spent The winter, quartered there, They’d emptied out the pantry, killed The cattle, stripped the barn, And raped the little milking maid Before they left the farm.
The farmer, Rodger Micklewaite Lay in his bed all day, Too sick to raise his farmer’s head, Too ill to bale the hay, His wife took on the milking of The milker they had left, And comforted the milking maid Who cried, as one bereft.
‘The master should be well again, By early May or June,’ The wife had muttered tearfully While gazing at the Moon, But soon a pair of pigeons took Their places in the loft, ‘Lord help us, it’s a sign of doom To curse our little croft.’
The pigeons had been there before When folk had fallen ill, And when they came, it fell the same For death would spread its chill, And Rodger died, when they appeared There was no time for grief, A man called Palm soon bought the farm To give them some relief.
The milking maid, her belly swelled Betook her to her bed, A tiny room that lay in gloom Beside the milking shed, She cried and cursed the Ironside That set her on this course, ‘May Satan put a thorn beneath The saddle of his horse.’
The babe was born by All Saints morn She’d screamed to see its face, The head shaped like a helmet or Some bony carapace, She only could discern its mouth With teeth sharp, and ill-formed, ‘I cannot nurse this ugly waif, I’ve bred the Devil’s spawn!’
Then Palm screeched at the sight of it, Was sick unto his soul, ‘I never should have bought this croft Or housed this Satan’s troll!’ The widow made his sickness bed And counted him as lost, For pigeons two came into view And settled in the loft.
Then Palm began to waste away, She fed him beer and broth, He died upon the seventh day, Was buried in the croft, But then a troop of Ironsides Rode through there from the moors, And one of them remained behind To tend his fevered horse.
‘What ails your horse,’ the widow said, The trooper growled with scorn, ‘Some fool that saddled up my horse Slid under it, a thorn.’ The milking maid, recovered then And thrust into his face, The baby, wrapped in lace and shawl To hide its carapace.
‘You left a trace of you behind When last you passed through here,’ The trooper blanched to see its face Then shook in mortal fear, The hungry babe went for his throat And bit with all its might, As blood streamed from the Ironside To drown the Devil’s mite.
Two pigeons flew into the loft Just as the trooper fell, It only took a minute for His soul to wake in hell, The widow and the milking maid Packed up and left that night, ‘This time, we’re like two pigeons,’ Said the widow, ‘taking flight!’
David Lewis Paget © 2014 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
Reviews
|
StatsAuthor
Related WritingPeople who liked this story also liked..
|
![[send message]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Flag Writing
