The wheel of the barrow squealed
With eerie persistance,
Cutting the chilled blackness
Of a December night.
Trundling up the track,
Swerving under the burden of a frail body.
The still body of a beautiful girl.
The marble white face staring up at the moon,
Lunar globes reflected in her dead eyes
Replacing the sparkle of life.
The figure pushing the barrow, strong for his age
Was clothed in shadow.
Well known in the village for being wild,
His wealth assured that
He would remain clothed in shadow forever.
Her father took delivery of the man's burden.
Her father, the man's tenant, mortified in grief.
The man from the big house said he'd found her
Breathing her last on the track.
Sick heart said the coroner.
Sick heart said the doctor(without examination).
Violated and strangled said her sisters
And half the village.
After that night, the man from the big house
Was looked upon with one eye shut.
Five generations further down that track
His name is quite forgotten now.
Though not by us
For she was of our blood.
The story behind this poem may be found on
My blog site.(welllovedstranger) M.P.Bridger.
