The Abbot's LoftA Poem by David Lewis PagetThey bet me I couldn’t spend the night Locked up in the Abbot’s loft, Up where recusants once, in fright Would wait for the stake at Pentecost. They’d once piled f*****s high in the square And taunted all night long, When peasants stood in the firelight In a massive, cheering throng.
But that was hundreds of years ago So of course I said I could, I should have known there was something wrong When I saw the man in the hood, The loft was next to the church bell tower And would creak when they pulled the rope Of the giant bell that sat in its bower To wait commands from the Pope.
I climbed the circular, rickety stair And they came and locked me in, There wasn’t a spark of light in there It was dark, as black as sin, And all there was was a narrow bed On a hard, old wooden plank, A single cover to keep me warm But I knew just who to thank.
They played the silliest games, of course, They would howl outside the door, Just as I started to settle down I would hear this terrible roar, Somehow the timbers would start to creak When they put a strain on the rope, And then the bell with a sound like hell Would boom, and I’d almost choke.
I lay the night in a fevered sleep But I swear someone came in, I felt a breeze from the open door And that coarse, harsh breath of sin, But then a gurgling, choking sound As my hair stood up on end, I stayed curled up in my dark surround As the door creaked once, then slammed.
When morning came, a sliver of light Shone in through a rafter beam, It fell upon a terrible sight A nightmare, wrapped in a dream, A man, whose body lay by the bed His throat all ragged and torn, And blood in puddles of horrible dread, I wished I’d never been born.
They must have rushed on up to my screams Flung open the padlocked door, Then stood in silence, staring at me And what lay dead on the floor, I saw him then, the man in the hood He’d wanted someone to blame, And there I was, all covered in blood With friends to witness my shame.
They’d bet me I couldn’t spend the night Locked up in the Abbot’s loft, Up where recusants once, in fright Would wait for the stake at Pentecost. But now my nights are spent in a cell Dreaming of death and blood, And why he’d want to send me to hell That infamous man in the hood.
David Lewis Paget © 2015 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
Reviews
|
StatsAuthor
Related WritingPeople who liked this story also liked..
|
![[send message]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Flag Writing
