The GrindylowA Poem by David Lewis PagetThe brook at the end of the garden Would gurgle and gush through the weeds, Would ripple and plash in the morning sun Like a spirit with spiritual needs, I’d play as a child with my paper boats As they twisted and twirled on the stream, Not knowing the danger my sister faced As she paddled barefoot in a dream. For under the water and in the weeds Was the face of a Grindylow, He’d stare long up at my sister’s legs From his weedbed, down below, I should have known and I should have warned If I’d known he lay down there, Ruling the brook from his silver throne But I didn’t, I declare. I didn’t then, till I saw one day His face in the willow shade, Reflected up on the water course Like a shadow God had made, He wore a sinister smile that turned The edge of his mouth to scorn, And eyes that pierced as Deirdre passed Her legs quite bare at the dawn. I said, ‘You walked by the river god And he stared right up your skirt,’ But Deirdre frowned, stared at the ground I thought that she must feel hurt. She kept on paddling in the brook Walked out by the willow tree, And two long arms then pulled her down Rose out of the brook, by me. I hadn’t the time to scream or cry Her hair went into the brook, Quick as a wink, she made no sound I dashed to the tree to look, And though the water was inches deep Its depth had taken the girl, Down through the weeds where the Dryads weep With the water starting to whirl. The brook still bubbles and gurgles there Will ripple and plash in the weeds, But I won’t go where I know below My sister lies in the reeds, She must have married the Grindylow For she never came back to see, If I was there in the morning air, If anything happened to me. David Lewis Paget
© 2016 David Lewis PagetReviews
|
StatsAuthor
Related WritingPeople who liked this story also liked..
|