Richard Allen Beevor

Rookie - 795 Points (23 March 1949 / London)

My Lord


I sat in the mansion that once was my Lord's,
the rain outside beating hard on the window's pane,
in each part the house was silent on this night,
I waited alone the long while in the candle lit gloom.

Far across the cold moor, a great distance was the town,
the peace of this place was always restful to my nerves,
yet a question rattled the chains of memory through my mind,
'Where is my Lord? '
'Why does he not appear? '

I sat alone in the great dining hall, quiet my soul content,
as outside wind now pressed against the glass,
give me an answer to ease this burden of not knowing,
rest my weary mind at last,
'Where is my Lord? '
'Why is he not here? '

'Your Lord is dead! '
The voices whispered in my ear,
'He rests quiet in his tomb beneath the sodden earth'

None will know what took place this night,
he lies in peace and for time immemorial
the cause shall be unknown,
the secret of his death lives in the soil,
his seed on winds now blown.

Submitted: Sunday, January 18, 2015

Topic of this poem: gothic

Form:


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