The Church of Wenslow Haze

The sea that batters the eastern coast

Has often subdued the land,

Five hundred years have seen the retreat

Of a mile of cliffs and sand,

When tides are low in the summertime

From beneath the distant swell,

The villagers lying abed at night

Hear the tolling of a bell.

 

The bell resounds up the village street

And rattles the cobblestones,

As the villagers close the shutters tight

And lock the doors of their homes,

They hear the thump of a wooden stump

As it echoes along the street,

The wooden leg of the mate, John Clegg

From Drake’s Armada Fleet!

 

The thump is steady and purposeful

As it heads towards the sea,

Where the bell still rings for matins

As in 1563,

When priests were burned for popery

In the England of those days,

They used the little singing cakes

In the Church of Wenslow Haze!

 

John Clegg was a surly protestant

In the service of the Queen,

So the use of the cakes for massing bread -

He thought it was quite obscene!

The vicar had leant to the Roman Church,

The Reverend Walter Raise,

And Clegg had stood and harangued him there

In the Church of Wenslow Haze.

 

‘You’ll bring your Popish habits here

At the risk of mortal pain,

I fought for the Queen Elizabeth

To see off the King of Spain,

If you don’t revert to the massing bread

And the Book of Common Prayer,

I’ll see to the piling of f*****s

When they burn you in the square!’

 

But Walter Raise would never be stayed

By the threats of an ignorant tar,

He said: ‘I only answer to God

For the what and the where we are!

The form is not as important as

The salving of the soul,

You’d better look to your own before

The Devil takes you all!’

 

But Clegg had waited for matins, he

Returned with a burning brand,

Set fire to the ancient tapestries

The pews and the altar stand,

He raised his cutlass and brought it down

On the Romish vicar’s head,

And he cursed the Church of Wenslow Haze

As the vicar lay there, dead!

 

The sea rose up in a sudden storm

And it swept across the land,

Engulfed the Church of Wenslow Haze

As if raised by God’s own hand,

The land had tilted beneath the sea

And the church, it settled deep,

With the bodies of Clegg and Walter Raise

And the bell-tower, and the keep!

 

So now when the tide repents and drops

To a fathom, over the bell,

The toll rings out from the surly deep

Like a call to the fiends from hell,

And a stump sounds over the cobblestones

As Clegg, for his soul’s sake pays,

He carries a burning fire brand

To the Church of Wenslow Haze.

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Becky C Strukamp]

First congrats on this being published in "THe Magical Mythical Mystery Compendium"

Another fine poem from a master story teller. I could listen to someone recite your poetry all day. It flows ever so freely and the story builds and takes on life. You are an outstanding poet/writer!

[Extant]

There is such drama woven into the narrative. Wonderfully portrayed; lovely mix of horror and dark humour.

[Dean Kuch®]

You have to be related to Gordon Lightfoot. There simply is no other explanation! A distant cousin maybe? I say this because Mr. Lightfoot, to me, is a master story teller wrapped up in a musician's exterior, ( The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald/The Ghosts of Cape Horn, etc.). And you are a master story teller wrapped up in a poet. Now, if you could only get in touch with your cousin, Mr. Lightfoot. Tell him you have a few lyrics for him. Of course, he's seventy three years old now...but he can still sure sing! All this just to make a corelation between one of my musical heros, Gordon. And one of my heros of metrical composition, Mr. David Lewis Paget...

[Michael G.]

As always, an entertaining read. A pleasure, as always.

[eatmills]

Historical. Incredible. Paget your grasp of the classic writing form just astounds me. I mayhaps will have to study your prose more.

I tip my hat to you.

[Kristallo]

"So now when the tide repents and drops
To a fathom, over the bell,
The toll rings out from the surly deep
Like a call to the fiends from hell," ---I loved this! This story was so remarkably crafted, flawlessly constructed, and entertaining as hell. You truly are a wordsmith, and I am always so fascinated by the tales you spin. This was a narrative I won't soon forget, thanks for sharing. :)

[Pax]

very narrative, great imagery and deep. a very nice story.

[afra]

wow so powerful ..and beautiful .....good job

[Dayran]

An inquiry into the origin of rituals in faith would certainly lead a person to the basis of such acts. Where these may have come from the stars, as in the practice of matins, it persuades the worshipper to find out for themselves.

I wonder if such a person, in finding out the basis for communion, might agree that it represents a fair representation of the institutional organization of faith in the context that it is intended and the issues that are involved. Until then Clegg may be in that way driven to find out. A weighty but timely issue David, well presented.

[Mark]

A remember another piece, from "Pen and Ink", I think, where a departed spirit, compelled to live forever, carried a light nightly to a lighthouse--I thought I was reading that piece, and almost didn't finish it, but I'm sure glad I did!
It cannot be denied that hate is the eternal affront, and that retribution is swift, certain, and equally eternal. Some will teach that John Clegg's soul, having paid adequately for sufficient centuries, will one day be expunged, and be permitted to move on. I think not...
When the sea rose, and swallowed Papist, building and perpetrator, immediately, that was when the hand of God was most apparent. Good show, mate!