Maidenhair

The grave they kept on the lonely beach

Lay under a foot of lime,

Most of the pile had washed away

With rain, and the tides of time,

It had been so long since its stone was laid

As a warning to who went there,

The rough-cut name had begun to fade,

To the solitary word, ‘Despair!’

 

It said, ‘Despair if you dig it up,

Despair if you set it free,

It savaged the girl called Maidenhair

It ravaged this fair country,

It roamed the farms at the dead of night

And tore into sheep and hogs,

The farmers called it the devil’s blight

When they found their blood-spattered dogs.

 

The only monk that was left to tend

The grave, now lay in the church,

His Order gone, now the only one

To fend off the tidal surge.

The church was almost a ruin since

It had shattered the oak-backed doors,

And blasted the Brothers altar with

Its devils breath, and its claws.

 

But the monk lay ill, and he knew full well

He never could make the beach,

To pile the lime on the Beast of Time

And the sea would surely breach.

His fellow monks were all laid in clay

On the upper side of the cliff,

Their duty done, they had one by one

Passed on, and lay cold and stiff.

 

A crack appeared in the bed of lime

With a rush of air from the shore,

And something groaned with an eerie moan,

The seed of the devil’s spore.

A whisp rose out of the open grave

To join with a gully breeze,

That sent it whirling along a wave

And into a grove of trees.

 

And then an ominous rumble rose

As a whirlwind formed on high,

It whipped the waves to a surly peak

As it rose to blacken the sky,

A tempest, such as had never been

Tore trees, like beeches and birch,

And cut a swathe like the path it paved,

On its wayward way to the church.

 

The monk lay there with his gilded cross

As he heard the beast outside,

It gave a roar by the shattered door

And the monk had almost died.

But a gentle hand took the cross from him,

A hand that was soft and fair,

And held it up to the beast so grim,

The ghost of Maidenhair.

 

It shuddered once as she stood with ease

And the cross then drove it back,

The whirlwind died to a gully breeze

As it fled back down the track.

It seemed confused, and it seemed to lose

Its overwhelming reach,

And sank back into its limestone grave

On that long deserted beach.

 

The sea had battered the arching cliff

Hung over that limestone shore,

It now collapsed in a final lapse

With the monks who’d passed before.

And beneath a thousand tons of earth

That is holding off the sea,

There’s a rough-cut stone that says, ‘Despair,

Despair if you let it free!’

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[andrew mitchell]

David, another great write from you that would hold many attention around a camp fire, glued to your every word. How you do it, and never run out of ideas ,or cross with another write of yours, meaning each is so different in story , just bloody amazes me what you wear up your sleeve to just pull out like a magician to entertain us and yet again I missed Mulga Bill's bicycle rushing past!

[Confuser]

David: You took my breath away...to be a poet, like you it is as if, as angel holds you closer to the earth..to see between all the blabbery words, of an amateur poet like me. You are so, so very talented sir. I found myself reciting this to my husband half asleep but became alert with each line I read. You take readers on a journey and pull them in so close; the imagery is phenomenal. You hit me between the eyes with your vivid imagery and descriptions. Bravo, once again. I think you are a poet savant, if there is such a thing, it is you David. Thank you so very much...Dale