The Fair Weather ManA Poem by David Lewis PagetThere
are times when fate steps in, and then You
never stand a chance, For
your life is cut and tailored to Some
random fortune’s dance, So
it was with Esmerelda Who
I’d loved with all my life, And
if fortune had but favoured me She
would have been my wife. We’d
long been courting, on and off Before
the seventh grade, I
had planned our lives minutely Roads
set out, and footpaths paved, She
always seemed to go along With
every scheme I’d planned, ‘Til
the one thing I’d not factored in Appeared,
his name was Stan! He
came in a Ferrari like Some
flashy movie star, In
his blazer, hat and silk cravat, She
gazed long at his car, In
a moment then, of weakness She
went with him for a drive, And
returned, my Esmerelda with His
star bright in her eyes. It
was Stan is this, and Stan is that And
Stan, can do no wrong, She
went with him Bungee Jumping, Took
to wearing a sarong, And
while I would cling to steeples, cleaning, Painting,
like King Kong, He
was with her, titillating, Though
I’d told her, it was wrong. She
began to sulk, took off the ring And
flung it in my face, So
I ground it into powder (I
admit, the ring was paste); But
she never did come back to me Was
more than mesmerised By
this flashy interloper who’d Infiltrated
our lives. Then
Stan went parachuting Jumped
from 20,000 feet, He
could land right on a nickel In
the middle of a street, (So
he said), but no-one questioned, Esmerelda
less than most, He
was more than her Prince Charming, He’d
become the perfect host. I
should have known the cause was lost, I
should have dried my eyes, When
folk spoke of their wedding It
still caught me by surprise, They’d
planned it for St. Albans In
that ancient little church, With
the tallest, sharpest steeple In
the county, and that hurt. Their
choice was quite ironic I
had been aloft that spire, To
clean a hundred years of grime A
steeple will acquire, I’d
cleaned up to the pinnacle, Down
to the bell-house tower, And
felt that little church was mine, My
mood was more than dour! But
Stan was not content to walk The
aisle, to greet his bride, He
planned to parachute on down To
the courtyard, just outside, Where
Esmerelda, dressed in white Would
gaze up at the skies, To
watch him come from up above The
lovelight in her eyes. The
day was wet and blustery, The
weathercock spun round, The
tiny plane flew overhead Stan
leapt toward the ground, He
looped, side-slipped, and swooped and turned Put
on a great display, The
daring groom would seem to zoom From
heaven, to earth’s soft clay. The
guests stood in the courtyard, raised Their
eyes up to the sky, As
Stan approached, I saw the tears In
Esmerelda’s eye, But
then a sudden, wayward gust Spun
Stan too far around, And
skewered him on the steeple Fifty
yards above the ground. I
hesitate, but mention now How
blood flew from his mouth, Shot
over Esmy’s wedding dress Its
stream still flowing south, He
draped there like an old rag doll He
twitched, and kicked, and hung, I
think they called the wedding off Before
the day was done. They
turned to me, the Steeplejack, And
said, ‘Well, it’s like this, We’ll
need to get the steeple cleaned, Unskewer
the detritus…’ I
looked the Pastor in the eye And
said, ‘From where I stand, He’s
yours and Esmerelda’s now, Your
own Fair Weather Man!’ David
Lewis Paget © 2012 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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