Tuesday, 6 August 2013

The Ghosts & Graffiti of the Red Mount Chapel

The Red Lady worships,
far from war and the world outside.

To the mother of god, whose
bones wait,
guarding secrets in the depths

Into the chapel did echo,
 a tap tapping.
From the door that led below.

Insidiously her perception slipped
from prayer.
Such certain fear.

Never again was she seen. Though they found
 blood trailing wetly,
gauges in the stone.

Leading down into the dark
where, they say,
you can still hear her screaming.

Such softly spoken ghost stories
lingered on, luring
the daring and the foolish.

1725 Ranford, 1682 RD, 1686 John, EB, Story

One such was a drunken fiddler
his faithful dog

1754 M.B. Arne, Ian

Long at port and brave
with boredom, he sought
the tunnels on a dare.

1695 RLSN, Seth + Garrard

Ignoring the warning whine,
hackles raised,
he played a tune to soothe the dark.

1885 Owen

And so still his ghost does wander,
when the mist is high.
His tune passing underground.

 1958 Inky

It may even be that you espy
a hound sitting by the chapel door,
fur dripping blood.

   These were the ghost stories I grew up with, told breathless on grey days with damp hair and scuffed shoes. They are as true as such things are.


  1. Also, this would be perfect as an entry for our creative writing competition, if you'd like to enter? Details here: http://tenyearstime.blogspot.co.uk/2013/07/calling-all-creatives-poetry-competition.html