The Man with Tales in his HairA Poem by David Lewis PagetWhen
the sun sank low in the midday sky And
the clouds came in from the south, He
knew that the winter was coming in And
it made him down in the mouth. With
a hint of rain in the morning dew The
breeze cut in like a knife, And
he went to fetch the firewood in For
the sake of his invalid wife. She
sat and shivered before the hearth When
he opened the outer door, As
the wind whipped icily round her legs A
trail of leaves on the floor, ‘My
love, be still, I’m lighting the fire And
you’ll soon be warm by the hearth.’ ‘I
fear it’s settling into my bones And
I’ll soon be deep in the earth.’ ‘You’ll
not get away so easily,’ He
said, and gave her a smile, ‘We’ll
settle this ague with bark and tea, I’ll
heat your bath in a while.’ ‘I’d
rather not leave the fireplace While
my thoughts are making me brood, So
put your spill to the wood fire, Will, Then
sit, and lighten my mood.’ He
lit the fire and he made it roar And
he checked each draught, at last, Jammed
the rug right under the door And
he made the windows fast, Then
he sat and held his Helen’s hand That
was freezing to the touch, And
said, ‘Now winter’s sat on the land I
needn’t go out so much!’ She
smiled, and ran a hand through his hair And
said that she loved him so, ‘Tell
me a tale of foreign lands, It
will help the time to go.’ So
he plucked a single hair from his head And
he said, ‘Each hair’s a tale!’ Then
he told of sailors swinging the lead, Of
mariners under sail. He
told of pirates, walking the plank Of
treasure chests in the deep, And
saw that she was slumbering there, Was
slowly going to sleep, He
sat beside her all through the night, Was
piling wood on the fire, And
nodded off in the broad daylight Right
next to his heart’s desire. The
squalls came in, it began to rain And
the rain then turned to snow, He
only went out to chop some wood And
to make the cabin glow. Each
night he’d sit there, holding her hand And
he’d pluck a hair from his head, ‘Now
here’s a tale from a northern land Where
the snow lies deep,’ he said. He
thought that she’d get better in time And
he brought her gruel and soup, Fed
her a tincture of laudanum Made
from the opium group. But
she still sat listless, pale and wan And
she slept more than she woke, Though
he plucked a hair from his head each night And
he whispered as he spoke. He
spoke of the place that lovers go Away
from the world of cares, Of
bubbling springs, and diamond rings And
a love that everyone shares, But
the snow outside was packed in a drift Right
up and over the door, He
couldn’t get out for the firewood But
shivered, asleep on the floor. He
woke next day when the sky was grey With
the cold set deep in his bones, And
looked at his wife in a mute dismay For
he knew that he was alone. The
undertaker was there by ten With
a coffin as cold as ice, And
he wept as he plucked a hair from his head And
wished her in paradise. They
buried her down in the cemetery Not
far from their cabin home, And
every day he would make his way To
her headstone, on his own. The
snow had finally melted when They
found he was there, stone dead, Draped
all over her headstone, but There
wasn’t a hair on his head. David
Lewis Paget © 2013 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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