The Stile

I always knew there was something strange

About that farmer’s stile,

For no-one ever climbed over it

And I’d watched it for a while.

The field beyond it was out of sight

Behind a hawthorn hedge,

I didn’t know till I tried to go

It was perched along the edge.

The edge of history, edge of time,

It may have been the gate,

That hell was hidden behind in that

It saved us from our fate,

I threw a stray dog over it first

To see what would transpire,

It came back ravening, racked with thirst

And it set the hedge on fire.

I wasn’t going to risk my health

Nor even my sanity,

But somebody else would have to go

For my curiosity.

I passed young Ann in the marketplace

And I thought she’d be no loss,

I talked her into crossing the stile,

She did, at Pentecost.

Now Ann had been unattractive when

I sent her over the stile,

I didn’t hear from her straight away

But hung around for a while,

Then out from behind the hawthorn hedge

She suddenly poked her head,

A ravishing beauty Ann was now

When I’d thought she might be dead.

‘Could that be possibly you?’ I said

When I saw her pouting lips,

Her stylish sash and fluttering lash

And her painted fingertips,

I hadn’t noticed her dimples when

I’d looked at her before,

But now she was drop dead gorgeous,

And the word was, ‘I adore.’

I tried to get her over the stile

But she said to me, ‘No fear,

For everything is so beautiful

I think I’ll be staying here.’

And then if I really wanted her

I would have to cross myself,

She said there was gold and rubies there

Amid signs of untold wealth.

I conquered my inner demons and

I took the step at a run,

Leapt over the farmer’s stile to Ann,

There in the midday sun,

But all I found was a battleground

Littered with heads and hands,

The rubbish of seven centuries

And a pile of old tin cans.

While Ann was dressed in a peasant gown

And had lost her pouting lips,

Her stylish sash that had turned to ash

And her coarsened fingertips,

‘What did you really expect,’ she said

As she pinned me to the ground,

‘Now you’ll be mine, though it seems unkind,

As long as the earth turns round.’

I’ve tried to escape for seven years

But I cannot find the stile,

The one that I jumped up over once

In response to her woman’s wiles.

I really thought I had played the girl

When she wasn’t much to see,

But she found me in the marketplace

And she ended playing me…

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

A wonderful story in the poetry shared David. You are a master story teller. Thank you my friend for sharing the amazing poetry.
Coyote

[Maxwell Ryder]

Consider womanly over woman’s? Never mind. Just a thought.

[A Soap Mess Stories]

Clever twist I didn't expect. Great read!

[KT-B]

Bravo - another clever,great read, love the humour in your work :)

[Einstein Noodle]

ahahahaha turn about is fair play and more says i! ;)) another fine rollicking tale sir! especially like the dog verse ...cruel i know but sure made me laugh at the thought of it happening ... another keeper my friend!
E.

[Tony Jordan]

Well....we get what we give David.
Even when we think we are being cute/smart we are often only playing ourselves.
I used to drink in a bar called The Hawthorn and I can tell you - nobody came out of there better than when they went in.
Excellent piece DLP. Just excellent.

[Pragati Chaudhary]

Hahahaha
That was a weird imaginary of the Stile
& I loved the whole arrangement of the Piece!
:)