The House the Cleric Built

We lived in a house a cleric built

In fifteen sixty-three,

Deep in a copse of Roman Elms

A grand and mighty tree,

The place was Tudor, half timbered,

And it creaked in every storm,

The wind was rattling through the eaves

Before we both were born.

We saw it up in the window of

The Realtor, going cheap,

It needed some TLC because

Its look would make you weep,

It badly needed a paint job and

Some timbers plugged with tar,

The years of rot had disfigured it,

‘Are you interested?’ ‘We are!’

Dead leaves had cluttered the downstairs rooms

And damp had swelled the floor,

The leadlight windows were dark with gloom

There were rats down in the store,

We worked and slaved on it, Jill and I,

Till it soon became a home,

Nestling in a hollow that 

The locals called a combe.

I’d lie awake in the poster bed

That had been since Cromwell’s day,

The beams and curtains were overhead

And the wind would make them sway,

While Jill slept soundly, I still could hear

The wind sough through the trees,

Come rattling up to the shutters and

Slip gently past the eaves.

But then some nights, I’d hear some muttering

Down there by the elms,

Like ghosts of soldiers, loud and stuttering

Underneath their helms,

And then I’d hear the sound of marching

To a Roman beat,

There wasn’t even a pavement but

It sounded like a street.

A street that clattered with cobblestones

To the sound of chariot wheels,

I’d stare on out from the window-sill

To see what night reveals,

But nothing moved in the shady wood

To make those strangest sounds,

I searched and searched in the daylight, through

Those ancient wooded grounds.

Then one day digging a garden patch

I came across a stone,

That held a funny inscription on

The face, that smacked of Rome,

I think it mentioned a Lucius 

From Legion Twenty-Nine,

I pried it out of the ground and then

I knew what I would find.

He lay there still in his breastplate

With his helmet and his sword,

His sandals still on his feet and tied

On tight, with a rotted cord,

The skull stared up at me in dismay

As if to say, ‘Who’s there?

You’ve broken into my endless sleep,

Invaded my despair.’

I swiftly covered him over so

That Jill would never see,

A sight to give her the nightmares that

I knew would come to me,

But then I settled his stone upright

That he might rest in bliss,

And that was the end of the mutterings,

From that day until this.

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Tony Jordan]

I used to love sitting in the local library scaring the bayjaysus out of myself reading the ghost books and they spoke of such places around Britain where great battles were fought and eerie sights and sounds were encountered.
I havent thought of them since I was about 12-13 when Life offered me some other more nefarious activities.
This brought me right back to those library days and I swear the hackles on my neck rose while I read this one David.
Magical poetry!
:)

[A Soap Mess Stories]

Wonderful tale. I must come back to this site as I miss reading everyone's writings.

[T.S. Sky]

This is great work. Are you published?

[D Connolly]

This was so awesome! I love stories of old forgotten ghosts wandering around looking for peace, and I'm so glad you were able to give it to the buried soldier! You're such a good storyteller/poet, I enjoy your work so much

[Lovecraft]

Love the description of the house, the history peppered throughout and the vivid imagery of the trees and leaves. I also appreciate the Gothic nature of the second half of the poem. All in wall, extremely well-done.

You ever read The Monk? ;)

[Valentine]

Nice story with a good ending. Left me wondering just what a Lucius really is. Happy ending too, I needed that. Nice one mate. Valentine