I recently wrote a piece based on one of @normalhappening’s Daily Inklings about the passing of my grandfather a few years ago. Since publishing that piece, my grandmother has found something that has evaded the family for many years, my grandad’s collection of poetry which he wrote based upon the stories and experiences that he picked up living in the village of Marston (where my family still lives now).
In honour of my grandad I intend (eventually) to get his works published in some capacity, be it on Amazon or some other way. I figured it might be nice to post them up here on my own blog too, it’s always interesting to see what other people think after all!
Without any further ado, here is his opening poem:
This book of verses, I hope interests you well.
It is neither fact, nor is it fiction upon history to dwell,
But in it perhaps folklore and legend, aye! A mixture of both,
For accurate, dated history is something I loathe.
No pawing over bookshelves or turning yellow page,
It would give me no pleasure to imitate the historian sage,
But I listen and watch as folks do their talk
And my verse often sets, as amongst them I walk.
Marston, my parish, of it volumes could be wrote,
Of its old industry and hump bridge and poacher’s deep false coat,
Of Forge Pool and Marbury, the woods and the mere,
About the ghost lady that walks to stir up a fear.
Around me these lie, of a closeness to walk,
I see the fox and the badger, the soaring clawed hawk.
So sit back and read you, these verses set in print
Some as deep as the ocean and all as fresh as mint.
And when done and read through, close your eyes so to dream,
Of my Marston, my parish, for that’s where you’ve been.
At Marbury hall, in days gone by
There was a death caused more than a sigh,
And the mistress, homesick of the orient was she,
Embalmed and buried, but a ghost to see.
She wanders now, through Marbury woods and the lane,
If you see her, remember, you’ll never be the same.
Some say she drowned, others say a knife,
Left the stain on the stairway as she took from this life.
Or a broken heart, perhaps illness weakened her will,
But as a ghost she wanders, not far from Marbury mill.