Ode to Eleanor

Twas a bleak and dreich October

When I sat munchin' on ma Tobler

-one. I stared alone twixt curtains

torn an' faded like Tim Burtons'

Corpse Bride and others o' that ilk.

I took a sip of me warmed milk

as doon in the groonds below

in patchy shadows neath the glow

of intermittent neon street lamps

hiding throngs o' zombies, vamps

didst frolic, gamble, twixt rose and bud,

Texas holdems, 5 card stud

at least they did in ma mind's een,

which had recorded every scary scene

fae horror movies maest eclectic

(lucky I'm no epileptic)

as on and off the lights didst flicker

reminds me how we once didst bicker

Me and my most recent ex but one –

Eleanor.

Suddenly I heard a tapping,

a quiet, gentle, faded rapping,

Turned did I and looked – no more-

towards my hard oak chamber door

“Who's there?!” ah croaked, goosebumps rising.

Twas just the wind, I tried surmising.

Swiss chocolate from my fingers fell

'pon the floor (some milk as well)

As lo, didst handle start to turn!

And in ma throat my heart did burn!

Through veins as chilled as ice

Ran curdled blood - no once but twice!

As tapping at the door compounded

rapping at the pane! Dumbfounded,

Shocked and stunned, I turned in vain

to see nought beyond the window pane

save skeletal tree-like bones a-tapping

'pon the glass like fingers rapping.

Beckoning to bid me join them

and secretly my life purloin, then

into darkness fae top floor I'd leap

And wake up dead fae tortured sleep.

“Just the Birch!” I knew

“Caused by one strong gust or two.

“But what of oakwood door?”

As I spun I saw no more

Than shadowy landing through the crack

and with distinct shrivelling of sack

I gasped on chocolate milky breath

and damn near almost choked to death

as I heard a voice shriek from the black

“It's just yer maw, dye want a snack?”

A voice that sounded nothing like

fair voice of Eleanor.

“No thanks, Mamaw, I'm mid ode:

An Edgar Allan episode.”

Fae the shadows, a tut, a sigh.

“Not again, wee lad, I can't see why

you can't just let this Eleanor bird

fly the coop. Wasn't she the third

to leave you lying in the dust?

It's not all about nice bum and bust.”

“It wasn't just her bum and bust,

if to refer to those you must,

her eyes, her nose, her smile, her hair

were also well beyond compare

Whether in the Louvre or Tate

such a perfect prime portrait

I haven't seen before or since

Next to her a pound of mince,

those other girls ...

we had some whirls

upon the carousel of love

but mother now, dear god above

Quit my door, opine no more,

Get thee hence, I must implore,

you leave me to my selfish wallow

in my Eleanor-shaped hollow.

Bother me no more along this lonely path

lest you taste my bitter, thorny wrath!”

and with a creak, a squeak, no more,

she then withdrew and closed the door.

And slowly upwards roamed my stare

from handle up the oakwood door and there

my gaze could not help but linger

as I pointed shaky finger

at the blown up photograph cropped shear

between the door and ceiling near

the final precious keepsake of my dearest Eleanor.

Just space enough for bum and bust 

above my oakwood chamber door.

Bum and bust and nothing more.

At least the blu tac still is sticking -

still is sticking, still is sticking -

Eleanor's dear bum and bust above my oakwood chamber door.

© Chris Young 2018