I’m Not Shakespeare – a song (W.I.P.)
I’m not Shakespeare
But, I’m the closest thing you’ve got;
My name’s not William
but I write an awful lot
just like he did
when he was alive;
I’m not Shakespeare
and my latest work
is Veronese Gentlemen 5.
Taking the Register
Have you got the time, Harry Lime?
The Reverend Green?
Has anybody seen the Reverend Green?
Ah! He was, was he?
In the Conservatory with a candlestick?
I asked Harry Lime if he knew the time,
he told me it was two minutes to midnight,
he sang this in a song,
he got it wrong.
We asked the Reverend Green
if he’d seen anything at all
at the crime scene;
but, he didn’t know what we did mean.
The Realm of the WoodWitch
I was following a narrow pathway that I had found in the forest – i was of a mind that it may have found me. I had no idea where it was leading to…
… it seemed to be taking me deeper and deeper towards the hinterland, where the WoodWitch was said to preside over her mystical realm. Glancing back, It seemed that the pathway had been swept aside as I travelled it – I could not return by that route.
Scant were the stories known about the WoodWitch or her deeds, as few who ever came within her spell ever returned – of those that did, it was said that a madness was in their minds and a fear was upon their hearts. But rumours grew and tales of unknown veracity were quietly whispered in the dead of the night between the children of the village, especially when the Moon was at its fullest.
I remembered the words of my mother from that very morning:
‘Don’t wander in the forest; straight to the mill for flour and straightaways back!’
She was right to have warned me, I was wrong to have ignored her words – but, that was what children did.
Inevitably the village population was reduced by a few young ‘uns every now and then. Of those that were left it was only a matter of time before the woods called out to them.
The parents of the missing children mourned for a while; the villagers supported them through the process; then the village shrugged its shoulders and carried on. There was a constant understated sadness as the days, weeks and years passed by and the missing children didn’t return.
When a child did reappear – sometimes an adult by then – the loss was tempered by the changes effected upon them – the sadness became one of a different nature.
A bead of sweat forms upon my brow
And is quickly akin to a torrent.
A heated breeze brings little respite
To my fatigued demeanour
And I close my eyes in such weariness…
When I awoke
There had been a distinct change in the weather
And my condition was such that I
Thought a fourth Ice-Age had descended.
This was not right.
How did I shiver here where once I had melted in the abnormal heat?
I seemed to be in the same place…
But, was this a different time?
There were no people
Just a vaguely familiar frozen landscape.
In fact, there seemed to be little chance of my living more than a few minutes in this bitterness.
I was shaking with the cold; surely my blood was freezing inside my veins.
Start moving, that was the thing; pump that blood and live a little longer – perhaps long enough for the survival instinct to kick in fully.
I hauled first one leg, then the other into a slow lumbering sequence of jerky movements. It wasn’t pretty, but it was a start.