The Recalcitrant Hand

They put me in charge of the churchyard,

And said, ‘mow between the graves,’

The weeds out there were atrocious

Grew in lumps, and clumps and waves,

They tangled up in the mower blades

And they shut the motor down,

So I had to use the garden shears

As I knelt upon the ground.

They covered some of the headstones, so

I had to rake them clear,

Spent half of my time sat reading them,

The date, the time of year,

The ground had given away on some,

Had fallen into a hole,

Wherever the coffin lids had caved

On some benighted soul.

The nights were coming on early so

I laboured into the dark,

Just by the light of a spirit lamp

That I’d borrowed from the park,

At length I came on a sunken grave

And I pulled the weeds aside,

To see the shape of a bony hand,

With the shock, I almost died.

The hand came up through the stoney earth

And it pointed to the sky,

With no flesh left on the fingers, yet

It seemed to question ‘Why?’

It still belonged to the corpse below

But had tried to get away,

Out of the dark of doom and gloom

And into the light of day.

The name on the grave was ‘Clarabelle’

And, ’She of the evil eye,

She hexed the cattle in Fingal’s Dell

And the swine, while passing by,

They hung her high on a willow tree

When she pointed at Belle Raye,

Who choked, then withered and sighed, was dead,

And all in a single day.’

The hand had twitched, I couldn’t resist

As I sat and watched it there,

I reached on out and I seized the wrist

And I felt some strange despair,

The hand was warm, and was then full-fleshed

As a shape rose from the ground,

That held me tight in the darkening light

With the hand that I had found.

I heard the rattle of death as she

Had tried to clear each lung,

Full of the body’s liquid waste

That had formed when she was hung.

I heard a croak, and the words she spoke

As she glared into my face,

‘I might be saved from my early grave,

But you’ll have to take my place.’

Whatever power it was she had

It dissolved and turned to sand,

The moment I pulled away from her

And I let go of her hand.

She didn’t speak, but let out a shriek

As she slid back in the grave,

So I’ll never know if she heard below:

‘You’re much too bad to save!’

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

A very nice tales described. Clarabelle was a interesting character. left the reader with thoughts and wonder. A nice ending to the outstanding poetry my friend David.
Coyote

[A Soap Mess Stories]

I love your Poe-esque tales of woe and dreariness...

[Barbz]

It amazes me how you muster up such eerie scenarios, such that scare the Dickens out of me. But you do, and you do it well. I often wonder if you see the entire picture before you start. Or does it just spill slowly and perfectly out of your pen when the darkness permeates your psyche. As usual, great rhyme and meter Barbz

[Ethan]

This is really, really good. Your rhymes flow very easily. Just a few editing things:

-I think you need another comma in line four

-"Spent half of my time sat reading them,"
I'm pretty sure, grammatically, this should go, "Spent half my time sitting, reading them."

[Tony Jordan]

A lucky beggar an all - to still have the wits to pull away and not be frozen to the spot to swap places!!
=:o

I love this atmospheric piece DLP.
Our own graveyard is just like that one - you could break your neck on the undulating soil.