Hanging

The sky is clear, and I am old,
At last I have been caught.
With all my clever schemes and plans,
Alas they are for nought.
Passion’s crime, that of the heart,
Excuses could be used,
But in the end I’m evil’s host,
And all my trust abused.
The hemp that forms my collar tight,
’tis right and just deserved,
And where my place in heaven was,
No longer is reserved.
While dragged I am by baying hoard,
Towards the gallows high,
I shed no tear for I am old,
And oh so clear the sky.

The Tyburn tree

I was watching a TV show about 18th century English ‘rogues’ and they talked about the hanging site in London – known as the Tyburn tree. This poem came from that. I hope you like it.

My time has come,
My crimes before all
Gathered here to see;
To journey down
The Oxford road,
And join the
Tyburn tree.

Caught fair and square,
By mister Wilde and
That’s as how it be;
He’ll see me hang
Beneath the blue,
A fruit of
Tyburn tree.

This London town,
In all its filth has
Been a home to me;
And yet alas,
‘twil be my end,
Beneath the
Tyburn tree.

Yet no regret,
Does this son feel
For such a thief as he;
As he will grace
The swinging noose,
That hangs from
Tyburn tree.

And so we draw,
Amongst the crowds who
Stand and stare at me;
Their hero now
Has come in pride,
Before the
Tyburn tree.

Oh raise a drink,
And give a shout and
Maybe pray for me;
For here I end
With neck in noose,
Beneath the
Tyburn tree.

The Crows Are Flying Again

Another one that started with the title / final line of each verse, and formed itself around them. I hope you like this one.

Beyond the hills there is a tree,
A bough thats grown for death,
The fraying rope of hangman’s noose
Steals my final breath;
If eyes are cast up to the sky,
Where on their way clouds wend,
You’ll see the watchers on the wing,
The crows are flying again.

Behind the church an endless pit,
A hole to lay my bones,
Enclosing earth to bury me
No chance left to atone,
If ears are tuned to laughing caw,
The silence it forfends,
You’ll hear the feathered judges sing,
The crows are flying again.

Beneath the ground there is a fire,
Eternally it burns,
No more for me the living air,
My world no longer turns.
In cruel lament the ringing cries
Confirm my coming end,
My final thought as long I sleep,
The crows are flying again.