The Ghost of Henry Snarkville Walks Worcester By Night

This faithful city was born

from war’s stubborn embrace.

The River Severn ebbs and

flows, time gathers pace,

 

old buildings fall to shadow

ancient bridges groan

a cathedral’s weeping willow

blood, silver, pike and bone.

 

Did the well-to-do once walk these

streets, carry parasols and quince ?

Stroll the Butts to see Ms Siddons

play a gloomy Danish prince ?

 

Did New Road ladies wave their

hats as boundaries were made

while Elgar sat in Cripplegate Park

writing songs for the hit parade ?

 

Boy soldiers hid their fear

close to Powick Bridge, as

musket fire drew battle lines

from a parliamentary ridge.

 

Now night’s weal turns,

silent bridges breathe,

an office worker yearns

for home, takes her leave.

 

Tech hums on standby in

deserted work-day rooms

students heat-up ready-meals

spray cut-price perfumes.

 

The ghost of Henry Snarkville

walks a long forgotten road

of serried flags and backward

bells, a civil war bestowed

 

upon the blind-mouthed who saw

glory in valour’s sacred frond

the burnished flag of England

the good lord’s righteous bond.

 

Snarkville, the teenage cavalier

who skipped to pipe and drum

pledged allegiance to his king

until the dirty war was won.

 

The youngest warrior, most faithful

child, his boots, plumes and cleats

persued the Grand Old Cause along

with other kids from the streets.

 

He mustered in Finsbury Fields

dug trenches at Gawdy Green

wore a fine tall hat the colour

of oak, breeches of aquamarine.

 

“Go hang the gospel-thumbers!” he

cried with an almighty taste for spoil,

ate fat black puddings with raw

recruits delighting in civil broil.

 

They stood all-a-shiver on night-

watch sodden to the core

their drowsy eyes a-spying

Roundheads by the score,

 

boys alone on rolling hills

scared of what they’d reap -

a quartermaster split their lips

if he found them half asleep.

 

Snarkville’s shade haunts these streets

impregnates crumbling stones

drifts like forgotten wood-smoke

beneath Worcester’s ancestral homes.

 

Along fog-bound roads and

muddy track, ice of winter brown

soldier-prophets rode to Deans-

gate and further into town

 

where a new model army strapped

Snarkville, fast in the reckoning chair

lashed him to a sycamore’s trunk

burned his love-locked hair.

 

His bones lie now unhindered

next to a martyr’s pew

where a kindly cleric whispered

prayers before they ran him through.

 

And the church bells rang so sweetly

as a shroud was stitched to bear:

His memory, they said, will never

fade throughout the coming year.

 

But who remembers Snarkville

now ? No history book tells his tale.

No epic poem recounts his death,

how he sobbed the night in jail

 

or ran carefree through wheat

fields the fresh wind on his cheek

slipped a posy into a shy girl’s lap

whose love he vowed to seek.

 

This night youths laugh by a fountain

a couple snog where they meet as

Snarkville’s ghost soars high above

the cathedral into Friar Street

 

and rests in an empty door-

way, consults its almanac

recalls bright songs from the hay

of life shared with a pottle of sack.

 

Worcester’s children paint the

town – wolves frisking in the sun –

impart a hidden vengeance

of what was said and done.

 

Midnight party boys dance

to the sound of breaking glass,

purple neon swirls in time

to a thumping hip-hop bass.

 

Good time girls from Abberley

showin’ off all their junk

run for waiting taxis

singing retro funk

 

as Snarkville drifts from Angel Street

via Sansome Way and Shades

the old quarter alive now

with clubbers filled with rage.

 

The homeless in dark corners

quell their sleeping fears

as fire system sirens sound

like music from the spheres

 

through startled air that long

ago echoed a fearsome noise 

as warring swords drove home

the hate of men, youths and boys.

 

Dawn will break across these city

streets as dawn broke once before

revealing emblems of country

folk – victims of civil war.

 

Snarkville found no glory

no valour to be had

only regret and retribution

for a goodly nation gone bad.

 

This morning chip wrappers and

beer mugs litter Worcester’s roads.

A golden fox eats his fill

as employees punch secret codes

 

and open buildings for a new

day of study toil and fun.

The moon slips its mooring;

Snarkville’s ghost is gone.