The Day the Cockerel Died

There’s a man been hung at the old crossroads

In the village of Little Deeping,

And in his pockets a couple of toads

That were there when they caught him, creeping,

They bound his arms and they hung him high

On the bough of a mystic rowan,

And filled his stuttering mouth with straw

To quell the spell of his going.

 

The village is set in a mystery

That was old when the world was growing,

Three thousand years of its history

Is lost to the world, unknowing,

The valley’s not in the land of them

Who are yet to stumble upon it,

For men live now as they once lived then

With their wives in a primrose bonnet.

 

And superstition is rife down there

In the village of Little Deeping,

Where women never reveal their hair

With men in the meadow, reaping,

They take their water deep from a well

And light each cottage with lamplight,

Using a primitive type of oil

That seeps from the soil, in moonlight.

 

Their brides leap over a witches broom

When the harvest grain is swelling,

Under the beams of a crescent moon

With a bonfire near their dwelling,

They change their partners every year

If their bellies haven’t swollen,

Or hang their charms up over the door

So their offspring won’t be stolen.

 

They live their lives by the Druid gods

Who would bring about the seasons,

And never question the rights and wrongs

For nature has its reasons,

Their days began at the break of dawn

To the sound of the cockerel crowing,

An ancient bird with its comb and spurs

That would bring the sun up, showing.

 

But Tam Eilann was a surly man

Who would often lie in, sleeping,

Dreaming away the early day

While the rest were out there, reaping,

He hated hearing the cockerel crow

As it bid the sun, its rising,

When he said, ‘that cockerel has to go,’

He was more than just surmising.

 

One autumn night, he snuffed his light

Went out in the darkness, creeping,

And caught the only cockerel left

In the village of Little Deeping,

His knife flashed once in the cold moonlight

And left the cockerel dying,

His neighbours hurried to see the sight

Of their only cockerel, lying.

 

‘You’ve shamed the gods and must pay the odds,’

They said as they bound him, crying,

Then hung him high on the rowan tree

And cursed, as they watched him dying.

The cattle low in the byre still

And the bees, they stay in the hive,

For there’s not been a single sunrise there

Since the day the cockerel died.

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

One minor tweak: "Of their only cockerel, lying." "Lying" is inappropriate here and should be "laying." This will, of course, require some reworking of the line, "And left the cockerel dying."

Aside from this, the narrative is perfection. You immediately take us back in time to one of superstition, myth, and lore.

[Marie]

Cockrels don't lay. Only hens do that. But if the words "lying" and "dying" were switched, I think it would sound better...

[David Lewis Paget]

In British English we don't use the word 'laying' from 'to lie'. That's an Americanism. We say lying. But as Marie says, the two words could be switched either way.

[Tate Morgan]

a different way of rhyme for this one i like the flow the story engrossing i am learning thank you

[Bob Sherunkle]

Outstanding Mr Paget. Fantastic imagery.Superb!

[Draven]

Ah, another great story. You never disappoint.

[Harmony Babin]

Very thrilling, I even got chills! Haha, good work (:

[A Soap Mess Stories]

Another great tale David.

[Daniel Sala]

What a great story, enthralling from word go, and a terrible ending. A marvellous write, the description of the village makes it all seem quite real. Better than a film. Bravo!

[s y e]

Wow, this is haunting David - I loved it though, it's written amazingly well. :-)

[David Scott]

I knew this story would be chilling by the title David. You delivered on the promise the title hinted.
You have used the phrase "Rowan Tree" several times in your poetry. I will have to look up the meaning. I think it tells the reader of a place and time and helps set the scene for the write.