The Scribe in the Woods of Time

There’s an ancient wood where nobody goes

That’s hid in the mists of time,

It covers a hundred miles or so

To the west of the Eden line;

The passengers on the rattling train

Will pull at the blinds, and stare,

But no-one’s game to get off the train

With the howl of the wolves out there!

 

And the stories told of walkers, who

Have never come back to tell,

Of monstrous birds that tore at their throats,

Of blood, congealed in a well;

There are cats out there as big as goats

The snakes are draped through the trees,

And vampire bats float down in a cloud

When there’s more than a passing breeze.

 

So none will venture into the wood

Not now, or in times gone by,

The bones that lie in the undergrowth

Are a lesson, for you and I;

But deep within is a clearing there,

A chimney that belches smoke,

A cottage door that is left ajar,

And hung on a hook, a cloak!

 

The cottage has stood there undisturbed

Since sixteen hundred and nine,

The man who sits at the writing desk

Is writing outside of time,

He whips up storms in the Balkans,

Conjures Thunderheads in the States,

With every swirl of his feather quill

Tornadoes twirl, or abate.

 

He hasn’t the time to trim his beard

It curls right down to the floor,

His eyebrows droop down over his eyes,

His hair is a nest, for sure;

Where eaglets peck, and nip at his scalp,

He brushes the birds away,

And dips his quill in the ink he spills

From the blood of an old dismay!

 

He marshals armies across the seas,

Prefers to put them to flight,

Their weapons gone as a harsh moon shone,

The soldiers melt in the night;

He topples Princes, he topples Kings

The fate of their wives is worse,

He packs them off to the guillotine,

But he always does it in verse!

 

Then when the sun sinks under the rim

Of the world in its daily round,

He sits in the cottage, cloaked in gloom

And his face turns into a frown;

Then he lifts his eyes to the stars above

Makes one of his heartfelt pleas:

‘Allow me to scribble ‘THE END’, my Lord!’

But a silence rings through the trees!

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Mark]

I can't quite put words to the feelings this verse evokes from me--It is as though the old hermit were cursed to chronicle all, yet partake in nothing, and desires nothing so much as it's end. Perhaps, too, 1609 was a random date, chosen for it's metricity, but I am compelled to wonder what took place in that year, and who was cursed by those events to live outside of time, forever observing. His words seem to sway the courses of histories, yet he seems to be uncaring of all but his tedium. A really challenging piece, David, one of your finest.

[Emerald Seas]

A true storyteller. This has a marvelous old world feel to it. Excellent craftsmanship bringing the reader in with vivid imagery as the story unfolds. I feel as if I am sitting with a very wise man, pulled out of his time physically, yet caught up in his mind with so many tales of old to tell, burdened by it all, he has secluded himself to put pen to paper and have it all pour out before he himself suffers a drastic fate.

[msharma]

A very intelligent piece I have come across.It slowly unveils the mystic feature and makes the reader enjoy it to the fullest.

[Sometimes Blood]

A good write.

[Elaenor Aisling]

I love the ballad style of your work. It flows marvelously and one can't help but become lost in the story. Lovely work.

[Kristallo]

What a captivating write! It's reads smoothly as an epic poem, and the imagery is so vivid! I really enjoyed reading this.

[rosemary keogh]

This is a amazing poem loved it.

[Dayran]

Sounds like the proverbial father of Abraham, but I'm obliged to say that even Abraham was from his father's quill. A great write as always Paget.

[Richard Layne]

Very enjoyable i love the ending

[Wendy Seames Garner]

Once again you have amazed me with your outstanding writing ability. Your words flow so beautifully, yet speak so vividly. I'm thinking that you are the writer in that cottage, David, making all things possible with your writing.

[Tate Morgan]

I am better think ill shout out for you tonight