The ConfessionA Poem by David Lewis Paget‘I’m
ill, I’m ill,’ said Rockingham, ‘I’m
ill,’ then took to his bed, He
tossed and turned in his fever there As
the visions danced in his head. He
couldn’t tell if the world outside Was
real, or a crazy dream, But
muttered into the night, instead Of
some of the things he’d seen. His
wife, Marie, was a surly wench She
said, ‘I’ll not be a nurse! I’ll
not be tied to a sick man’s bed,' And
left the room, with a curse. She
called the maid and she told her: ‘Sit! And
mop at the old man’s brow, I’ll
be abroad in the coach and six, If
he dies, go milk the cow!’ The
fever turned to delerium As
he tossed and turned all night, The
doctor came, and he feared for him As
he lay in the grey twilight, He
used up seventeen leeches as He
blooded him, full sore, But
Rockingham was a haunted man From
a time of long before. From
time to time, he would sit up straight And
stare, with an awful dread, As
the ghost of Harold Murchison Would
hover, over his bed. ‘Don’t
come for me, it was my Marie That
you wanted - She was a witch! If
only you’d taken her off from me, She’s
such a God-awful b***h!’ He
fell back onto the pillow, cried At
the mess he’d made of his life, And
the worst mistake he’d ever made Was
to make Marie his wife, She’d
married him for the Castle gate And
the pride of a titled name, But
her love had stayed with Murchison And
she saw him, just the same. At
midnight they had hurried the priest And
the constable came too, ‘I
think he’ll be dead by morning,’ said The
doc: ‘Not much I can do!' But
Rockingham tossed as one quite lost While
the ghost lay in his mind, ‘It’s
true, it’s true! What was I to do? I
poisoned her Harry’s wine!’ He
fell back onto the pillow, slept In
the peace of the almost dead, For
Murchison had faded away At
the words that he’d just said, He
woke that morn when a thunderstorm Flash-flooded
over the floor, His
eyes were bright from his endless night, But the hangman stood at the door! David
Lewis Paget © 2012 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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