The Wench

He sat at the railway station in

The hopes of a passing train,

There hadn’t been one for hours, while he

Was sheltering from the rain,

While over the opposite platform, sat

And sprawled on a wooden bench,

A sight to gladden a jaundiced eye,

A typical old-time wench.

For wenches were few and far between

In that post-industrial time,

As everyone wore both slacks and jeans,

And nothing to tease the mind,

But not this wench on the wooden bench

For she wore a floral dress,

A petticoat that was made of rope

That rose to her knees, no less.

And could those have been real stockings like

They’d been when he was a lad,

With straightened seams to the land of dreams

From calf to the thigh, well clad,

It put him in mind of the garter belts

That she’d have to wear, no doubt,

He’d seen in his teenage magazines

When he was a gadabout.

She rose and walked up the platform and

She gave her brolly a whirl,

And then he noticed her bodice with

Its buttons, mother of pearl,

Her hair was combed in a bouffant, piled 

Up high in an auburn wave,

And dangling from her delicate ears

Were miniature rings of jade.

Two trains pulled into the station,

One each side and they climbed aboard,

Their windows were facing each other,

He faced back, while she faced forward,

Then just for a moment he smiled at her

And she smiled back from her bench,

As he muttered to her six silent words:

‘By God! You’re a beautiful wench!’

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

A nice ending to the wonderful story in the poetry. I enjoyed this tale. Thank you David for sharing the outstanding poetry.
Coyote

[TPK Stories]

Nice story David. Love to read this.