The Lodger Who Sold His Numbered Days
There’s mention of a lodging, its darkness fills
the whole of morning, hush now, and shadows
lean on a darkened door where a man, it’s said,
now hush, once brought ill upon himself. He sold
all his remaining days to Lucifer. Shhh. Hush there.
And bad omens befell us all, he did the village
justly harm. We so poor, we wretches, sshhh, for
he’ll hear my words, and no money n’er exchanged,
only all his numbered days, that 200 years ago.
So hush, you hush! for sure he hears me, just as we
hear his footfall on darkness in his morning room.
Inspired by Bleak House. Found and remixed text used in this
piece also sourced from my 1991 Winter Journal, Bletchingley, Surrey.
The photo is from wikiCommons