The Desk of Jeremy Thorpe

I haven’t the pocket to buy antiques

But often I like to go,

To sit at the antique auctions,

See who’s there, who’s in the know,

The men with yen and the businessmen

The Lords and the Ladies too,

Still with the loot their forebears stole

In 1642.

 

So guys like me can only watch

As the bids creep up each time,

Some of the things they’re bidding for,

It’s like white-collar crime,

There’s better stuff in a garage sale

Or found in a pile of junk,

I come away and I often say:

‘Well, that was a load of bunk!’

 

But sometimes, at the end of the day

When the bids and the deals are done,

There are items that are cast away

Not even a bid, not one,

And they sit forlorn, out there on the lawn

Where everyone passed them by,

Waiting for owners to pick them up

Under a threatening sky.

 

That’s where I found the Georgian desk,

Beaten, battered and worn,

The side was scuffed and the top was chipped

With one side panel gone,

Someone had found it, out in a barn,

Under a pile of hay,

And brought it along on spec, they said,

They hoped it would go away.

 

I said, ‘Well what do you want for it,

I’ll cart it off in the truck,’

He said, ‘I’m happy with forty quid!’

I couldn’t believe my luck.

I got it home and I cleaned it up

And polished the ancient stain,

I’ll swear that the desk had smiled at me

With faith in itself, again.

 

And then I replaced the panel that

Was missing from times before,

But not before I’d inspected it,

Discovered a secret drawer,

And tucked in there was a parchment

Faded yet, and next to a quill,

It said, ‘Dear Margaret, hearken to me,

This love has made me ill!’

 

A chill ran suddenly down my spine

The hairs rose up on my neck,

The room went dark as I placed the parchment

Down, face up on the desk.

I felt my heart beginning to pound

As I read what he had to say:

‘I came, my love, at the time you said,

But the soldiers took you away!’

 

That was the day that changed my life

For the weather ‘til then was fine,

A cloud had come, and covered the sun

As I got to his final line,

Then thunder cracked and rattled the roof

While lightning shattered the birch,

He wrote, ‘Your father and his dragoons

Are out there, guarding the church.’

 

My mind was set in a turmoil, and

I paced for that afternoon,

Wondering who these people were

That had cast my life in gloom,

The only clue was the cursive date

And the name that he’d finely wrought,

For that was 1768

And his name was Jeremy Thorpe.

 

It seems they’d planned to elope and wed

In the church at Medlin Tort,

But the father said that he’d strike him dead

Despite what his daughter thought,

For Jeremy was a colonist,

And would take his daughter there,

To the Massachusetts colony,

Revolution in the air!

 

The nights that I couldn’t sleep, I paced

And wandered from room to room,

The study was faintly lighted by

A waning, rising Moon,

One night a young man sat at the desk

With a powdered wig and quill,

And wrote, ‘My Heart, all hope has fled,

But for me, I love you still.’

 

I went there looking for answers in

The local reading room,

I searched the shelves of the library

And I found an ancient tome,

A Margaret Evancourt had died

Imprisoned in a mill,

And left a note, ‘My Jeremy,

This heart bleeds for you still.’

 

That night I sat at the Georgian desk

Picked up the quill and I wrote,

Nothing of great import, but just

A simple, one line note,

I left it there on the desk, and laid

It underneath the quill,

It said, ‘Your love is imprisoned,

You will find her down at the mill!’

 

I never saw him again, my note

Had gone when I arose,

I couldn’t wait to be off, in haste

I struggled with my clothes,

Then down at the little church I’d found

Still there, at Medlin Tort,

Were written the wedding lines I’d sought

Of Margaret Evancourt.

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Lena M. P.]

Oh what a beauty this one is. I once bought an old sea chest that had a hidden door and some sketches hidden there. I love old antiques; my house is full of them. They each tell a story and I sit and wonder sometimes how many hands and hearts these pieces have touched. This is definitely one of my favorites.

[Ravyne Hawke]

A very beautiful tale of love reunited through time. This is quality work as always, David. I love how your mind weaves these tales together.

[Tate Morgan]

That was sweet.Love triumphs after All I guess can it follow long after the grave?

[Marie]

Oh good...a happy ending. The present reaching out to the past and uniting lovers long since ghosts...

[Robert Lindsay]

I like the way you stepped out from some historical events (fictional or factual I don't know)
and created a plot in which you gave room for a modern intervention. If I say it any other way it's a spoiler for other readers..!

Your poems do remind me of the 'Tales of the Unexpected'. An old British TV series.

[David Scott]

I enjoyed getting back to your poetry David.
With fresh eyes I wonder about the meter. I wonder if you usually do not have a specific pattern? I hope you can educate me on this matter.
I love your work and your creative imagination. I guess if the story reads well rules may not apply.
Reading with your wonderful accent on mind helps me enjoy the poetry even more.

[TL Boehm]

WOW! Love the story in this piece and the wonderful original twist at the end.

[Keith]

Interesting 'ghost story' of long lost love with a happy ending. Well told. Great description of auctions and etc at the beginning, have found a few treasures that way myself.