The Confession

‘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

Reviews

[Cristina Moldoveanu]

Another story full of wit. The ghost takes finally revenge. Confessing in front of other mortals brings peace from heaven because human law takes over. The poor man was trapped between two evils. What if...just for the sake of questioning...maybe one can read your story grasping another meaning (imaginative) - for example Marie was a witch and a b***h, guilty for marrying this man, guilty for the death of the other one she loved. And then she poisons her husband and doesn't care about his fate. What people confess under drugs, fever, delirium, tortures, cannot be considered the ultimate truth. The man dies and she becomes a wealthy and honorable widow. After all she was in love with money. Please excuse me if I went to far with my interpretation. I just wanted to say that your latest stories have the quality to offer different alternative scenarios to the reader, exactly like detective fiction. I was searching for the motives and interests of the characters, because man is driven by his goals in life. I like when a story can be read in different ways.

[Clayton Bardwell]

When I see that you've posted a new poem my eyes widen, my nostrils flare, the whooshing sounds in my ears lessens, I settle deeper into my chair and stare at the screen. It's an autonomic response. It's like the fight or flight syndrome except I'n not going anywhere, only in my mind.

[Marie]

Excellent. He was no longer haunterd after his confession, but it destroyed him just the same. And I guess that Marie got away with everything...doesn't sound like me, though...