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.

Advertisements

Rooms Of The Dead

This is a piece that suddenly arrived, and had to be written. It hasn’t happened like this for a long time and I’ve missed it. I hope you like it, morbid though it is.

All is quiet,
In the rooms of the dead,
Where the dust of what’s past
Lies deep.
A shadow, it grows,
In the silvery glow
Of a moon that forbids me
To sleep.

All is dire,
In the rooms of the dead,
Where the dreams of the dark
Do creep.
My memory shows,
With the pictures it knows,
A dark past with such secrets
I keep.

All is final,
In the rooms of the dead,
Where the truth of the soul
Is bleak.
All punishment owed,
And for whom the bell tolls,
A dark sowing is now mine
To reap.