The ChoiceA Poem by David Lewis PagetThe
house had stood in the forest since The
passing of George the Third, Ivy
clung to the western wall, The
pillars were cracked and scarred, The
windows were bricked and boarded up From
the days of the window tax, And
the name FitzAdam was burnt in sin In
its myriad faults and cracks. The
oaks threw shadows in early morn, The
elms threw shadows at noon, There
wasn’t a single sunny wall To
be found ‘til the month of June, And
deep inside in the gloomy halls Sat
the last of the family tree, Two
aging spinsters, Jan and Jane, And
a dead man, that made three! For
Henry sat as he’d always sat Since
the day that he’d come to call, To
ask for the hand of Jan or Jane, And
arrange a Wedding Ball, It
was fifty years ago today That
he’d kept them in suspense, For
neither knew what their suitor knew And
the atmosphere was tense! It
was just a game to him, they thought, He
was going to have his fun, He
sat at the head of the table, and He
watched their features run, The
anxious looks of the elder girl, The
pleading lips of Jane, He
sat for an hour between them there And
refused to name a name! The
fire that glowed in the hearth went out, Jane
left to fetch some coal, While
Jan reached out for a sign from him And
felt that his hand was cold; His
eyes were blank as a morning mist, His
jaw had dropped to his chest, ‘What
have you done - was I the one?’ Jane
cried, in her distress! But
Henry, he was good and dead, He’d
reached his earthly span, His
heart had not proved big enough To
choose between Jane and Jan, And
so he sits with a secret smile As
his flesh returns to sand, While
Jan and Jane, they still complain As
they struggle to hold his hand! David
Lewis Paget © 2012 David Lewis PagetFeatured ReviewReviews
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