Death Whispers in My Ear

A Poem by David Lewis Paget

The doctors said: ‘Take her away,

There’s nothing we can do,

The life is seeping from her blood

Her soul is weeping too,

But keep her in a darkened room

And hidden from the light,

Perhaps you’ll gain a week or two

Before her soul takes flight!’

I drove her to ‘The Grange’ at that,

Post haste, in coach and four,

I veiled her in black crepe and lace,

She fainted at the door.

I carried her, she was so slight

I feared she might be dead,

And laid her on the davenport

A pillow at her head.

I covered her with red damask

And drew the velvet drapes,

There’d be no light for her again

This side of heaven’s gates,

She stirred in her delirium

And sighed with every tear,

‘Once you were mine, but now I find

Death whispers in my ear!’

I lit a single candle, and

The beam fell on her face,

Though she was in extremis she

Had lost but little grace,

If only she had looked at me

To whisper words of love,

But he was near, Sir Ralph de Vere,

And ruled her from above.

He’d lured her from our marriage bed

And had his way with her,

He’d dazzled her with sweet perfumes

And trinkets by the score,

He’d danced her off her pretty feet

And turned her face from me,

And like a fool, I fought a duel

With aristocracy.

Two pistols primed, he turned and fired

But most erratically,

His Second begged to cease it there

But I aimed carefully,

My first had pinged his shoulder

But he stood his ground, and stared,

The second bullet, true and straight

Left Ralph de Vere quite dead!

The Seconds swore it legal when

The Magistrate was called,

But not so my Elizabeth;

No! - She was quite appalled.

She sank into a stupor there

Of shock and binding grief,

‘You’ve taken all my love,’ she cried,

‘You’re just a petty thief!’

A week she lay within these walls

A week of no respite,

I heard some ghostly mutterings

Around The Grange at night,

And then an apparition formed

Beside that davenport,

That wraithlike Peer, Sir Ralph de Vere

That I had set at naught.

The wraith leant over where she lay,

Held out a bony hand,

She rose up from the davenport

And laughed that she could stand,

They drifted from that hateful room,

Where I would have to stay,

Her body on the davenport

They faded both away.

I paced about that fateful night

And raged there in the gloom,

Her stolen soul had taken flight

From dearth, within that room.

And now I find my nightly plight

Is worse than dreamless fear,

Its bony hands caught at my throat,

Death whispers in my ear!

David Lewis Paget

© 2012 David Lewis Paget

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Tate Morgan

This is exquisitely crafted one of 5 of your best works ever
I covered her with red damask
And drew the velvet drapes,
There’d be no light for her again
This side of heaven’s gates,
She stirred in her delirium
And sighed with every tear,
‘Once you were mine, but now I find
Death whispers in my ear!’

This part was so divine i envied it and wish I had thought it first But alas you are the master of this craft and I stand in awe of this talent once again. Congratulations on this poem and the new record set for most poems in a month for you.Most of us at our physical heights assume we will have to live with a downhill roll from 20 or so where we peaked. You show me how a man can quadruple his value and influence as he ages .For that alone scores you big. Thank you Dave
Your friend
Tate