The Blood of an Englishman

There was always something strange about

The tree by the clifftop farm,

It hadn’t been there when I was young

Till the storm blew down the barn,

Then once the land was cleared it grew

At a pace I’d never seen,

A raggedy, twisted wreck of a tree

That my wife said was obscene.

 

‘Why don’t we cut it down,’ she said,

‘Why do you let it grow?’

‘It doesn’t do any harm,’ I said,

‘It’s there for the winter blow.

It stands where it will protect the house

From the fiercest winter storm,

It may be ugly to see,’ I said

‘But it helps to shelter our home.’

 

The roots were massive and twisted, and

They spread, all over the place,

They tunneled under the house and then

Came up by the fireplace,

I chopped them off and I poisoned those

That tried to come through the floor,

And then I found there were other roots

Jamming our old front door.

 

The winter came in a rush that year

And we were buried in snow,

We hoped that there’d be an early thaw

But it didn’t hurry to go.

We stayed inside and we stoked the fire

With the roots I’d cut from the tree,

The food went down in the larder, but

The fire burned merrily.

 

I hadn’t so much as glanced outside

For a month, or maybe more,

The wind would howl at the chimney pots

But to go outside, what for?

Then Spring shone over the windowsill

And the snow began to melt,

So finally we could venture out,

I can’t tell how we felt.

 

For out there at the side of the house

The tree had grown grotesque,

It seems it had continued to grow

Beneath its snow-clad vest,

For branches snaked across to the roof

And clung to the chimney pots,

To hold itself upright and aloof

Where I’d chopped the roots right off.

 

But what had disturbed and frightened me

Was the tree had grown in height,

Its gnarled and twisted trunk so high

It was almost out of sight,

It disappeared in a darkening cloud

That seemed to hover and stay,

While other clouds were adrift up there

It was still there, day by day.

 

At night, with terrible grinding sounds

The branches moved on the roof,

They tumbled off the chimney pots,

Believe me, that’s the truth!

The wife said, ‘We should have cut it down

When we had the chance, last Spring,

But now it’ll probably take the house

So we can’t do anything.’

 

I know you’ll never believe me now,

It all seems so absurd,

But I broke out the elephant gun

At the sound of just one word,

We lay abed with it overhead

And the tree began to hum,

It woke me as I listened, and then

The word I heard was, ‘Fum!’

 

I aimed the gun up the tree that night

At those penetrating sounds,

I couldn’t have fired enough if I

Had had a thousand rounds.

And something hurtled on past me then

To land right down in the bay,

The tree was silent, it ceased to hum

And I chopped it down next day.

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Helena]

I loved this write.....but then again I love them all. This was special, with the usual superb imagery that fairly jumps and hits your senses head on! I love your subtle humour and your twists and turns and fabulous endings that leave as wanting more and more.

Write on dear poet!

Kindest regaards,

Helena :)

[TL Boehm]

Fascinating story - trees themselves can terrify but this one seems to have had some monstrous assistance. Always a pleasure to read you.

[Devanshu Rajput]

Wow!!!!Another grand piece by you. I might say a horrible form of the Jack and the Beanstalk. Don't you agree?

This is something, that will amaze anybody. But, I am caught in a dilemma. Whether to call this a humorous one or a horrible one, which gives the reader many goosebumps?

If you can help me?

Humble regards,
Devanshu

[David Lewis Paget]

Humeomerous or Goosebumperee, Devanshu, take your pickery.

[Devanshu Rajput]

I thought that I will go as per your volition. It is indeed a dilemma for m. I again request, plase help me, Sir.

Devanshu

[R Smith]

that was a very good tale David, i bet we've all had a dodgy looking tree in the garden at sometime in our lives, or is it just me, they can be real scary things sometimes lol, another fine piece of work from your never ending imagination :)

[MomzillaNC]

Now, from your title, I expected this to be in the vein of "Jack and the Beanstalk." However, as I read, I thought it was going to be more about some supernatural protective force in the tree that grew so that they had the roots to chop for winter fires and to shield them from the harsh, raging winter. Then, you twist it right back to Jack's giant! Love it!

[Marie]

I made the connection right away. I hoped your narrator was going to climb the tree and rescue the princess and bring down the magic harp...

[David Lewis Paget]

For those of you who grew up without the benefit of exposure to English Fairy Stories, this is merely a re-telling of 'Jack and the Beanstalk'.
Fee - Fi - Fo - Fum
I smell the blood of an Englishman
Be he alive or be he dead
I'll grind his bones to make my bread.

[Woody]

ach I never made the connection. I've got a vague recollection of this particular one.
ah well. it takes nothing of the beauty of your poem.

[Woody]

creepy stuff and told in rhyme! it's a feat beyond anyone else but you David.
boundless imagination, my friend.

[Jennie Baron]

Splendid as always! I stand in awe of your imagination that keeps coming up with great story poems like this, and the deftness with which you word them. Very enjoyable.

[RomaJ]

Aww you are always a pleasure to read. My cheeks ache from smiling every time I read your poems. Brilliant just brilliant as always.