Thy Will Be Done!
I always thought that Jean La Mare was strange,
Gave me the creeps,
With lank, uncared for russet hair
And eyes with depths and deeps,
She hung her head when walking by
Wore dresses to her shins,
She had no friends at school, at lunch
Sat by the rubbish bins.
Her father was the picture of a
Martinet of old,
Bolt upright, at attention he
Would rant at her, and scold.
An Army Colonel, long retired
His wife dead in the ground,
His thoughts for bringing daughters up
Were ancient, and profound.
She dared not answer back, nor baulk
At anything he said,
He kept her close, so close we thought
That she slept in his bed.
We never saw her out of school
She cooked and cleaned and swept,
When asked if she'd be at the Ball,
She turned away, and wept.
Time passed, and we had left the school,
Got on with living life,
I met someone, and pretty soon
Had caught myself a wife,
But my old friend from schooldays
Richard Carson, lived alone,
He said he'd not met anyone
Who thrilled him to the bone.
We'd all turned just on thirty when
He dropped the big surprise,
He said that he'd asked Jean La Mare!
I answered, 'Is that wise? '
It seems the Martinet had died,
Was safely in his box,
So Jean was free, and so was he
To tie the wedding knots.
I saw her at the wedding there,
The first time then for years,
I saw her laugh for once, she laughed
So much, it came to tears.
They seemed so happy in that church,
Her burden dead and gone,
But Richard told me later of
Her curse - 'Thy Will Be Done! '
For every evening of her life
She'd get down on her knees,
Before a varnished wooden box
And pray that she had pleased!
The box stood on the mantelpiece
And Richard dared not ask
Just what was in that box; he thought
It was her father's ash!
She'd pray and ask for guidance, then
She'd listen in the gloom,
He never heard a murmur but, she did,
Before that tomb!
She'd answer statements no-one made,
Would wail, then plead, implore,
While Richard stayed away and hid,
Stood listening by the door!
He asked her what her father said
When he'd approached him once,
The old man turned and marched away,
He'd felt quite like a dunce!
He'd asked if he could take her out,
The Colonel stood and glared:
'If you should even speak to her, young man,
I'll see you dead! '
But Jean had blushed and looked away,
And wouldn't answer then,
She muttered: 'He just didn't want me
Mixing with young men! '
But then she started acting strange,
Would slyly look away,
Whenever he came in the room
As she was going to pray.
He came to see me, looking ill,
He said he was unwell,
That Jean was getting stranger by the day
His life was hell!
She'd served him up a meal that made
Him sick, perspire and weak,
I told him he should get away...
He found it hard to speak!
I didn't want to interfere
But things were looking grim,
I went around to see them, well, not her,
I cared for him.
She flashed a look of hate at me,
Unbridled, undisguised,
She looked like some fanatic with
Grey analytic eyes.
She left us then to talk, and I
Saw on the mantelpiece,
The box that he'd described to me,
I said, 'Just call the Police! '
I'd flipped the clasp, the front swung down
It opened up to dread,
For staring at us both, we saw
His eyeless, staring head!
Then Jean came back, let out a scream,
Attacked me with a knife,
I caught her wrist, said: 'Richard,
Just restrain your crazy wife! '
She fell down on her knees and cried:
'I tried to be a son! '
Then listened, as if hearing it,
Then said, 'Thy will be done! '
poem by David Lewis Paget
Added by Poetry Lover
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