Your Poetry Dot Com - The Revenge of the Lord of Olney Moor

Upon a time, ere/'/ centuries past

Rose manor mighty- bode built to last;

blocks of granite hewn

by hand

Rose above the tarny land.

In misty days remembrance fade

Yet within these halls (these days) redress still bade,

one lord alone, last in line of family dead

Pondered glories, wealth surrendered to echoes tread.

The Manor/'/s lord gave life to thought

To sweet revenge planned he, conniving made,

With stern command to servants bade,

In redress life breathed to maliced hatch,

thence actions made, he thus dispatched.

Within cold walls of stone, ere/'/ midnights roam

lived deeds of past, of great renown,

Yet now in this modern age,

Within these flags of solid build

Silence reigns but for wind/'/s chill,

Once (oh, how it filled) did music rise,

did lutes so thrill!

Did Laughter ring on walls of gilt

draped in tapestry of finest silk,

Of Battles won did pennant/'/s fling

the clash of shields, swords did sing

Slashing, tearing, hear them ring?

On other walls covered thus

Depiction/'/s deeds held fields of blood

Whence knights passed in crimson flood

Beyond this life;

within their weave

Silken tales of mighty deeds.

In day/'/s of lore, of armoured suits

In age of alchemy and mandrake root

To this later time (memories now)

The current lord did lonely stroll

Now his manse a crumble, aged vexing hold

He mangled deep to stem the tide,

"How to gloss these ravages, I can/'/t abide!

And how came I, this Manse, once so fair

What brought my noble name to such despair?"

Neath candles flicker waning soft,

A list grew long of ink and quill,

born in cold and deathly ill.

"These descendants, all to blame,

they ride tails of wealth, all ill-gained!

Goblets now they drink that once were

mine, had war and fortune not declined

to leave my tarn and travel forth-

Their lips now drain vintage red,

by virtue of my line, now dead.”

Thus surmised, a plan did bear,

counting thus on Hedon/'/s draw,

Entice them would he to his maw.

"These pigs, these cads, these suckling scum,

With promised revels and wine they come!"

At his command and thence to steeds demand

Fast they rode into the night,

/'/neath misty moors ghastly palish lunar light;

On oaken doors of thickened age

Did menials offer with humble gaze

To Lords and ladies did summons grasp

Lavish parchment of great impress,

stealthy feet of menial tread

borne to nobles of select.

Well thought, this list, most specific drawn

revenge ignited in hatred/'/s dawn.

The lord awaited riders swift return,

Musing, stewing; a simmering bile

A fortnights turn to plan yet more

The fates of those to cross his door.

"For was it not, these gentry be,

noble by their forefather/'/s maliced deeds,

wrought upon my family arms

Bourne of greed and lust,

Evil/'/s spawn- imposter/'/s, acting richly thus;

not by effort or wit so keen,

vile treachery rewards of wealth, esteem,

They strut upon ancestor/'/s sin

A peasant/'/s death, most foul, for all of them!”

With hands a rub to ward the chill, his heart

pumped fast, made warm of thrill.

At last it comes, how scones shine!

The night is neigh, plans realized

With crowded great room

filled with song, he called out loudly,

vast and strong,

"Celebrate, revel, dance!" their host all smiles about them pranced,

From shadow to light; levity, beyond compare,

Guests of wealth and fame; land/'/s most fair

Strolled, imbibed they did to excess flair.

Master, ruler, estate the lord

He summoned, gathered his privileged horde-

within his heart, an evil host

(though hearty nestled in the most, deception ruled this, the perfect host)

In his mind of deep and dark despair

By guile, smiles, did he draw them there.

Earls and Counts, no more rare

than servants passage beyond wealth/'/s flare

treading light behind the walls

in narrow passage for biddings call.

Perceiveth they the state their Lord

Ill portents did they note the forge.

Wondereth they the night to bring,

What evil given voice to sing,

Drowning smiles afloat so free,

Guests blind purchase revelry

To fate waiting most ill portent drear,

Menials and Master only but aware,

The manor/'/s lord of well formed plan

Servant/'/s nerves laid bare to whispered fears.

With daggers rap to golden goblet,

above converse did clanging cling,

our descendant once of lineage strong

with wave of hand did silence minstrel/'/s song.

Eyes fastened on their generous host,

Ears attuned to words thus he spoke;

"Behold my Lords and Dames, my Counts, My Dukes,

My Earls, my guests of noble suit;

I, the lord of Olney Moor

Bid you welcome through my door. Venison, this morn run free

now wait upon your forks to feed.

Pheasant, late on English wind,

plated thus to take within;

plucked dismembered to your delight,

partake, partake this merry night!"

Cheers echoed from a hundred throats,

The treachery, theft and murder more-

aught but distant acts, ancestral past

nothing now (to them), just memories ghost, forgotten half.

Not so to Lord of Olney Moor, oh no! Not so, not so at all!

Slights fresh to him as snow/'/s virgin fall.

One more ring to goblet gleaming,

Silence, gazing, flushed faces gleaming

"My honoured, my treasured guests,

I offer now a gift beyond compare;

a vintage wine, exceeding rare.

First pressed by feet of French decent,

when English ruled the continent.

Stored many years for just this night

until such time as cork removed to our delight."

Thus saying pulled he from the floor, aged case

of darkened knurled bore

"Drink ye/'/, drink ye/'/!" bade the host,

"this nectar sweet, ancestral boast."

With palates whetted to extreme,

lust and greed, with upturned lips

to man and lady did they sip.

But the wily lord of Olney Moor,

Seemingly beyond reproach

did turn his back upon his guests and

fill his flagon to the most,

not with nectar of his gift,

but safer vintage for his lips.

Turning round, eyes a lit and smile bright,

continence projecting ever more delight,

whilst Lord and Lady to a tee

swallowed, gulping lustfully-

then one by one,

with hand to throat, of bulging eyes and guttural chokes

His earls, his ladies, dukes and counts,

dropped one by one to flagstone ground.

"Why", screamed some as truth dawned thus,

"Why, Lord Olney, have you poisoned us?"

In silence, no reply or less

One by one, death caressed

reaping in its ghastly chore,

till death claimed all, save one- a room of life no more-

a chamber strewn of scattered corpse common of voided stare

Lord Olney spake in spite to deadened ears,

"You Lords, you ladies, thieves of fame,

realize the ruin my family name

has suffered by ancestral hands,

where you lived

what you called home was once my land!

When maker meet, as soon you will,

curse forefathers deeds for actions ill.

But I, the last of Olney Moor, suffer not the shame-

I carry it no more, and so you lay in death/'/s grasp

sent thus by me, with pride, at last."

When all lay dead, reposed in pain,

swollen tongues and eyes of glazen frozen fear

Lord of Olney Moor regained

revenge to once his noble family name-

Deaths repose, warped and mocked

His coat of arms on shield reflected shined anew

/'/twixt pike and mace on granite walls

Revered once more to rightful place.

This poem is Copyright Â© Invierno