This month’s poem is a bit of fun. April is National Poetry Writing Month (#NaPoWriMo), which challenges aspiring poets to write a poem a day following prompts provided by the organisers.

The first prompt this year was to compose a poem based on the plot or a scene from a novel.

This is my offering, which features the type of language used in the original book, as opposed to terminology I’d use in a contemporary piece.

I’ve also based my poem on the famous poem “The Highwayman” by Alfred Noyes, which you may have studied at school. I hope you enjoy it and recognise the book the scene is taken from.

After Alfred Noyes

The moon was a ghostly galleon sailing through ancient stones

The wind was a torrent of darkness, whistling with eerie moans

The road was a scarcely used footpath, known by hardly a few

And the orphan, Pip, came striding -

Striding – striding

The orphan, Pip, came striding, coming to pay his dues.

He’d a bunch of half-dead flowers, and innocent was his gaze

His clothing and his posture showed how dutiful were his ways

He knelt beside their marker, prayed the Lord their souls to save

He’d never known his parents –

His loving, long-dead parents. He’d never known his parents, save for visits to that sad grave.

Over the wasteland he’d scrambled, to visit the bleak, windswept spot.

He’d tapped at the ground so the marshland could grab him and swallow him not.

He whistled a tune in the blackness, to banish all spirits and ghosts

He wasn’t afeared of the Devil

The Devil, the Devil

He wasn’t afeared of the Devil – not even with all of his Hosts.

And deep in the dark old graveyard a rotted old branch then creaked

Where a fearsome stranger listened – his clothing was all mud-streaked

He shivered and limped through the graveyard, his teeth were a-chatt’rin away

But he needed to find some shelter

Some shelter, some shelter

He needed to find some shelter, and so he began to say:

“Come here you impish rascal, or I’ll kill you where you stand.

I’ve got no food or water, so I’ll have what you’ve to hand”

“Oh, please sir” said the youngster, “I’ve hardly got a bean.

I’m just a weary orphan

An orphan, an orphan. I’m just a simple orphan, so why are you being so mean?”

And the convict’s chains clanged in the darkness, like no churchyard bell that tolled

He up-ended our poor weak young Master and grasped him with very firm hold Then shook him to see what was hidden, in pockets and shirt sleeves and all

But all that fell out was a bread roll

A stale roll, a plain roll

And all that fell out was a bread roll to sustain him till daybreak would call.

The fugitive questioned the orphan, asking him where did he live

And had he a file, and some vittles, that to this poor wretch he could give?

“What fat cheeks you have got,“ said the villain, hunger etched over his face

“Darn me, if I couldn’t just eat ‘em

Eat ‘em, eat ‘em.

Darn me if I couldn’t just eat ‘em and bury what’s left in this place.”

“Please sir, you are making me dizzy” our valiant hero then said,

So the convict put down his weak victim, sat him on a gravestone instead.

“Now young man, watch yourself and be quiet. There’s a youth over there by that mound

And next to ‘im, I’m an angel

An angel, an angel

And next to ‘im I’m an angel, so don’t you go making a sound.”

So Pip made a solemn promise, on the graves of his parents, you know.

The thought of his heart and his liver, being ripped from his flesh, scared him so.

He wanted to flee from the villain, but fear made him say this refrain:

“The Lord strike me dead if I come not,

Come not, come not

The Lord strike me dead if I come not, with vittles, and file for your chain”.

So off to the marsh went the convict, towards the river and mounds

That he hoped would hide and succour him. He didn’t dare to be found

He avoided the graves of the many, limping and skirting around

Since he feared he’d be grabbed by his ankles

His ankles, his ankles

He feared he’d be grabbed by his ankles and sent straight to Hell underground.

The moon was a ghostly galleon sailing through ancient stones

The wind was a torrent of darkness, whistling with eerie moans

The road was still a bare footpath, known only by those who lived near.

And the fugitive went clanking

Clanking, clanking

The fugitive went clanking, whilst poor Pip ran back home in great fear.