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!

[Tate Morgan]

Wow Now that's some story puts me in mind of the story of Moby Dick in some ways The town crier in that story a damned soul as well. He had eaten a young boys heart of 13 .This very same boy he had been charged with protecting on his maiden voyage. Seems it doesn't matter where you're from in the land of cross you will be branded one way or another in this life or the next!

[roarke]

your sense and telling of place never ceases to capture me. No one tells the legends and paints the long ago ruins as well as you do. I wish history was taught in the same form you tell your poetry in. Bravo.

[Marie]

A wonderful ghost story...Clegg must be someone like the Wandering Jew...never to find rest...

[Helena]

What absolute power your pen wields David! It manages to pick me up and set me down in the times you write about, again a witness to the 'goings' on!! My, I could practically hear the 'stump sounds over the cobblestones", the smell of the burning tapestries and the salty sea air. Truly an unforgettable read. Thank you, it was a treat!

[Clayton Bardwell]

I knew there was a reason I woke up at three in the morning.