The Ruined Church

Whenever I ride in the countryside

On the further side of the hill,

I can see the new church steeple, rising

Over the fields and rills,

Then I venture down to the valley, on

The Little Newhampton side,

And see the wreck of the ancient church

And remember the day it died.

 

Its blackened stone lies wide to the sky,

Its rafters lie in the nave,

If God was passing that fateful day

He thought it too late to save,

The lightning bolt that shattered his cross

Went on to set it on fire,

The lectern, pews, of Reverend Buse

Conspired to burn on his pyre.

 

They found his skull, all covered in ash

But the rest of him had gone,

Had flown his soul with its blackened wings

To a feast on the Eve of John,

He was known to hold a Satanic Mass

On the night of the Witches Moon,

But the Bishop’s men were hard on his track

And would have defrocked him soon.

 

His congregation was always sparse,

For the good folk stayed away,

They’d heard strange rumours of what went on

With the Squire, and the Widow Hay,

They locked themselves behind cedar doors

And called on the god of wrath,

With lighted candles, inverted cross,

Laid out on the altar cloth.

 

The evening of the lightning strike

The leadlight flickered and flashed,

And screams rang out in the early hours

As a black cat hurried past,

For then the windows had glowed bright red

To herald a presence there,

While a deep, loud gutteral voice rang out

To foul and corrupt the air.

 

‘Where are my churls and underlings,

My troglodytes and my trolls?

Tonight is the night of sundering

Each evil heart from its soul!’

The Squire burst out, made a run for it

And tried to leap on his horse,

But the old black mare took him back in there,

And somebody slammed the doors.

 

And that was when the lightning struck,

It flashed, and shattered the cross,

The blazing roof came tumbling down

And the Widow Hay was lost.

They never found the Squire or his horse,

But I think that’s just as well,

They’re probably roasting chestnuts, down

In the seventh circle of Hell!

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[emmajoy]

'They found his skull, all covered in ash .. But the rest of him had gone, .. Had flown his soul with its blackened wings .. To a feast on the Eve of John, ' Such dates should be know and thus, keep folk out of trouble!

Sweet smiled-at last two lines! Yet again your precision with metre and first class narration makes you shine like a beacon, Mr. Paget! A creepy, whining, howling tale this, wrapped in a short November night when the Devil rode like a punk out for trouble and - what he couldn't find, he created.

[TL Boehm]

rolling chestnuts...I chuckled at that. Another fine tale you've told here.

[MomzillaNC]

Ooh! A macabre delivery of righteous justice! Well penned. Where do you come up with these themes? It boggles the mind how inventive all your tales are! And always so entertaining!

[A Soap Mess Stories]

This reminded me of Emily Dickinson's poem, "I Could Not Stop for Death." Well written story....

[Marie]

The Black Mass is something to be feard and shunned. I don't wonder God struck the church down.

[Valentine]

One of your best tales. It is going into my favorites. Had to laugh at the ending and a couple other lines. You are the master of this type story telling. Thank you for the request. Kathie

[Barbz]

It blows my mind to think that such a quick thought brings to fruition what I deem my brain's nutrition.....This gets a widow thinking!! Bravo, once again David, Bravo!

[R Smith]

heavenly justice for the dodgy Squire from the lightening of God, a dark and supernatural write David and another success for you, thank you :)