Shadows in the Rain

My father told us the story of

The time of his greatest pain,

Back in the year of ninety-nine,

During Victoria’s reign,

He lived in a two-bed terrace,

With a brother and sisters two,

With gas lamps out in the cobbled street

And nothing you’d call a view.

‘The windows were of a pebble glass

That distorted all you’d see,

And when it rained and the clouds were grained

All these shades appeared to me,

The lamps would cast a flickering beam

On the movement in the street,

To paint in shadows the local scene

Of that place they called ‘The Fleet’.’

‘I thought these shadows were passing ghosts

Who had died and lost their way,

Their shadows, caught in the pouring rain

Coming back and forth all day,

I little knew that my brother too

Would be claimed before too long,

Would add his tiny, flickering soul

To the heart of that heaving throng.’

‘For down below, a river would flow

Underneath the Coach and Horse,

The mighty sewers of the Fleet

Followed that watercourse,

The entrances were underground

And the water in it foul,

But floating bodies were often found

And the sewer men would howl.’

‘And Toby, our little Toby, he

Would be sent along the street,

He’d clatter along the cobblestones

For a loaf of bread, a treat,

He’d fetch a plug of tobacco for

Our father’s pipe, of course,

Collecting it from the barman there,

Down at the Coach and Horse.’

‘He’d toddle away, in light or dark,

He’d go in the sun or rain,

Whatever my father asked him do

He saw no need to explain,

And Toby went in the drizzling rain

One day, for a quart of beer,

I watched for him through the pebble glass

But the lad quite disappeared.’

‘All I could see were the moving shapes

Of the shadows in the rain,

Of ghosts, all huddled in coats and capes

As they passed my way, again,

But never a sight of our Toby, nor

The quart of my father’s beer,

We sent out a searching party, but

He wasn’t to reappear.’

‘We got in touch with the sewer men

Who said they would search the Fleet,

And try to find him before he flowed

To the Thames on New Bridge Street,

But all they found were a dozen dogs

Along with a monster pig,

Who all had drowned before they were found

And Toby was half as big.’

‘My father stood at the open door

At the same time every day,

Come rain or shine, he couldn’t divine

Why Toby had gone away,

But I can see, as if in a fit,

A thing that should count the least,

My father’s pipe, forever unlit,

Still gracing the mantelpiece.’

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[BThomvanWart]

Such a fantastic, mentally stimulating piece! I loved the feeling over it, right down to the schematic and flow. Reading this was like being transported to a busy, turn of the century London. You wrote such an intriguing, storytelling piece that I feel as though I couldn't come up with higher praise than loving this piece! I shall read more of your work! :D

[No one]

Wonderful in every sense; I loved this poem a lot!

[Avinash]

Few things you stop doing in memory of someone you loved. It perturbs us so deep we no longer want to face the associated emotions. Your writings fire imagination so vivid I can tell the writer was there when he was writing it.

[TPK Stories]

Wonderful tale David. I loved the rhythm.

[IamRealTusoul]

I love it,,,beautifully written and sad too. Awesome job

[softlyfall]

You are a gifted storyteller, your friends and children and wife must fall at your feet to hear you tell them.
Wonderful poem

[R Smith]

Immensely sad David, this makes me think of Dickensian style stories, I guess you have that kinda feeling in your work although no one can take away from you your own very distinct and unique story telling of course, personally I would read you ahead of Dickens or even most writers any day, you're always a wonderful read my friend :)

[Sam Westcott]

I really enjoyed this, it's beautiful but sad in its way. You're very talented.

[andrew mitchell]

Sad David but a yarn it is brilliantly told but lies some truth spoken in another one's tale!

[richieb]

Loved your work, easy flow, nothing forced. Excellent imagery, felt a sense of music that timed the verse's for me. I cannot write poetry but I will read more of yours.