The LandauA Poem by David Lewis PagetThe
winter fogs roll in from the Thames While
frost forms up on the eaves, The
damp will settle in aching bones, While
the trees are bereft of leaves; The
streets were stark in the old East End A
footfall echoed and died, And
nights when the homes were shuttered in They
listened to wheels outside. A
Landau, black as the devil’s sin And
drawn by a single horse, Rolled
slowly up to The Black Dog Inn By
the side of the watercourse, When
out there came from the bawdy house In
black from her head to tail, A
dollymop with a nosegay, Wearing
a bonnet, black, with a veil. She’d
climb up into the Landau while The
coachman, clad in a cloak, Would
give one flick with the reins, And
pull on the bit ‘til the horse had choked, He’d
take them off with a clatter Wheels
a-rattle on cobblestones, His
eyes agleam like a demon While
he whipped the horse to the bone. The
horse’s hooves on the cobbles Warned
ahead through the fog and mist, As
people cowered in doorways Shouted
a curse as the Landau passed, They
followed the glow of the gaslamps Shedding
their weak and feeble light, And
raced by the mighty river Into
the dark of the endless night. They
came to a halt at Wapping Down
where the river cast its spawn, The
bodies of dead and drowned who’d Cursed
their mothers for being born, And
hung on poles at the river’s edge Was
another terrible sight, The
bodies of sailor mutineers That
swung in their chains at night. Hung
on the Tyburn gallows Then
cut down and shackled again, The
bodies were coated with tallow For
a post mortem hanging in chain, They’d
bind them up with a winding cloth Then
coat them again in tar, Hang
them in chains at the riverside ‘Til
their dust blew near and far. The
woman climbed out of the Landau Took
one look, and fell to her knees, Her
lover hung gently swaying, Swaying
in time to the river breeze, His
eyes stared out from the candle wax And
his mouth was shaped in an ‘Oh!’ He
seemed to be saying, ‘Goodbye, my love; What
a terrible way to go!’ She
wept like a woman demented, Seized
his legs, and pulled to her breast, Clung
to his swinging figure Moaned
like a creature, quite obsessed, She
tried transferring her warmth to him But
his cold was the cold of death, And
his eyes stared straight ahead of him No
thoughts, no love, no breath! She
climbed back into the Landau As
the coachman whipped it away, And
often at night they hear it go, Those
folks down Wapping way, They
say it spattered a stream of blood On
the road as it raced on by, From
the dollymop who’d slashed her throat And
lay in the coach to die. And
when there’s a mighty river fog In
the winter, down by the Thames, They
sit in the Inn they call Black Dog And
they drink to the health of friends, They
drink to the ones who’ve gone before As
they hear the wheels outside, And
hold their breath at the emptiness As
the door is opened wide! David
Lewis Paget © 2012 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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