HEAD FOR THE GATE

HEAD FOR THE GATE

Old England wasn’t gentle
in those dark and distant years,
when punishment was public
and nobody hid their fears.
You bowed before the soldiers,
you listened to the state,
or one day you might find yourself
displayed upon a gate.

The axe came down above me,
I heard the people shout,
then suddenly the world went strange
and every light went out.
My head fell hard upon the ground,
it rolled and settled round,
yet still my lips appeared to move
as if some life was found.

But life had gone completely,
there was nothing left to save,
just nerves still jumping foolishly
before I found my grave.
A soldier walked towards me
as calm as calm could be,
then grabbed me roughly by the hair
and lifted what was me.

He carried me without a word
while horses stamped nearby,
and not one person dared to ask
the soldier how or why.
He fixed me high upon a spike
for everyone to see,
a warning to the villagers:
Behave or this could be thee.

And there I stayed through wind and rain,
above the muddy street,
while people wandered underneath
and carried on to eat.
A woman bought a joint of meat,
a baker sold his bread,
and nobody seemed bothered
by the fellow overhead.

A worm came crawling slowly,
quite determined, fat and wise,
then wriggled through my tangled hair
and vanished near my eyes.
A fly went up my broken neck,
where neck was there no more,
and started eating memories
I’d spent a life to store.

It ate my dreams and arguments,
the people I had known,
it munched upon my secrets
as if my thoughts were bone.
And I remember thinking
though thinking should be dead
If maggots eat a clever man,
do maggots get his head?

The horses kept on galloping,
their hoofbeats filled the town,
while soldiers watched the paupers
and ordered them to bow down.
They mocked the poor, they mocked the weak,
then vanished up the hill,
and everybody carried on
because they always will.

The church bells rang each Sunday,
the soldiers watched each door,
and people learned that asking why
could leave you on the floor.
You followed crown and scripture,
you did exactly as they said,
because rebellion had a habit
of separating body from head.

Children passed beneath me,
some frightened, some amused.
One little boy looked up and asked,
“What did that man refuse?”
His mother dragged him quickly on
and whispered, “Don’t you stare.
Just keep your head upon your neck
and leave that poor one there.”

The years have turned to centuries,
the gates have rotted through,
the soldiers and their horses
have vanished out of view.
No head now hangs above the road,
no warning stains the stone,
but history keeps whispering
of things that once were known.

And sometimes when the night is still
I hear those hoofbeats yet,
climbing up that ancient hill
the world chose to forget.
I hear the axe, the crowd, the bell,
the orders shouted straight
and somewhere in old England
I’m still watching from that old gate.