The Grave that I Dug for You!A Poem by David Lewis PagetIt
was three o’clock in the morning On
the final day of spring, I
was stuck in a hole in the graveyard Of
Saint Matthews, Nether Ling, I
like to dig them at nightfall when The
folk are home, in bed, Not
wandering round the churchyard Making
a racket, waking the dead! It’s
creepy enough as it is, whenever The
Moon sails over the church, And
shines its beams on the headstones Of
Jack Dervish, or Bill Burch, Of
mad old Widow Maloney, who, The
stories do abound, Was
carried kicking and screaming In
her coffin, and put in the ground. My
job is a labour of love, I’ve lived In
this village, all my life, I
know each one who lives here, every Mistress,
husband and wife, Whenever
I dig a grave, I know Exactly
who it’s for, And
shed the bitter, parting tear For
the ones who go before. I’ve
even dug for my own, my Darling
mother, and my dad, They
left on that last long journey when I
was but still a lad, The
Vicar made me the Sexton, so That
I could earn my keep, Living
alone in the cottage, ghosts Would
haunt me in my sleep. I
often manage an extra grave, That
I dig by the iron fence, All
overhung with the creepers, that I
buy, for Peter’s Pence, They’re
there for the poor and needy who Can’t
manage a burial fee, So
I carry the bodies at midnight, drop Them
in, all buried for free! I
always attend the services, And
stand right up at the back, And
that’s where I first saw Caroline, My
love, my Caroline Black, She
went to her brother’s funeral With
veil, and covered in lace, But
the wind blew up as she left, and then I
saw sweet Caroline’s face. I
fell; I saw and was smitten, She
had given me half a smile, I
felt so bold as to ask her if I
could walk with her, for a while. We
went some way, she held my hand And
she looked me, square in the eye, ‘What
would you say if I told you that My
mother’s about to die?’ It
seemed that her mother had cancer, So
she told me, with a tear, They’d
told her mother three months ago She
wouldn’t live out the year, She
lived way up on the hillside there In
the mansion called ‘Beau Clair’, I
thought that she must have money But
she said - ‘The cupboard is bare!’ The
money they’d paid for the funeral Of
her brother had been the last, Her
father had gone some years ago, And
had left them little cash, ‘How
will I bury my mother,’ Caroline Cried,
as women will do, ‘Now
don’t you fret,’ I assured her, I
have a grave I’ve dug for you!’ The
mother died the following week, The
doctor had thought it strange, He’d
given the mother a bill of health To
last to a ripe old age, The
coroner was quite upset When
he found how the woman died, It
seemed the autopsy findings showed Her
full of insecticide. The
brother was raised at once, I know, I
dug him up in the night, Surrounded
by Sheriff’s officers Who
carried a lantern light, They
found the same insecticide Had
seeped right into his bones, And
Caroline went on trial that day In
spite of her sobs, and moans. I
saw her once, right after the trial When
the judge put on his hat, That
little black square of portent That
had sentenced Caroline Black. He’d
said: ‘You shall be hanged by the neck, Pray
God for your soul to save, Your
crimes are the crimes of parricide, They
will follow you, into the grave!’ They
let me into the holding cell As
she waited to be sent down, So
pale and brave now the deed was done Though
she kept her eyes on the ground. ‘If
only…’ I had begun to say, But
she stayed me: ‘What can you do?’ ‘I
can keep you warm, and comfortable, In
the grave that I dug for you!’ David
Lewis Paget © 2012 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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