The Keeper of the Heads

The smell is a fine one;
The death of a traitor
is always sweet

I feel the pulse of the cheers
echo through the city
when the mighty fall
or the wretched scum meet their end

Then they send the heads to me
Parboiled
Dipped in tar
Beautifully macabre

And I get to work
Proudly plying my trade
For there's a colour to my craft
and a heritage I'm proud to continue

If there's time, I'll slowly snake my way
along to the Southwark gate
Passing each shop, each house
Hearing every call
Acknowledging every known face
Through the bustle and noise
Soaking up the bridges' glorious atmosphere

It's a joy to serve the King and the City in this way

This is more than just a pike
More than just a head
It's a Showpiece

Yes, I confess the odd specimen gives me trouble
Becomes a tad too putrid
Or too popular with the pecking gulls

Some tell me they've seen
empty eye sockets stare
and rotting flesh twitch

'Unnerving' is the word they use.

I don't see it myself, but 
Now and then one will cause a fuss
and jam the bridge solid
As everyone clamours to get a look

I smile.  Wait for nightfall
And yield it to the Thames

Rather a shame, 
but it clears some space for the next one

And, of course, there is always a next one.

characterhistorylondonprose poetry

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