Lord Ledgie Of The Cut - Poem by Francesca Johnson
Lord Ledgie, paintbrush bristling in his hands
“You can call me Ledgie, John or anything you like
but I’m known as Lord Ledgie, ” he says.
Tall and imperial with long flowing locks
And a battered old hat,
Sartorially inelegant but suitably attired
For his stature and eccentricity.
His Peacock lies still, silent, purple and proud
A testament to his talents
And a reminder of his lost loves.
I wobble myself in through its tiny door
And step onto a fragile box blindly
To enter the brilliance of the interior.
The purple and pink and turquoise
Slap me in the face, happily.
Lord Ledgie talks about God and spiritual healing,
The price of houses and how to keep a fire burning,
And, in a hushed tone, about the rules of the Cut
Which must be broken or bended ever so slightly.
He tells me that it is better to give than to receive
And then asks for a cigarette
Which he smokes out on the towpath
Beside his can of lurid paint
Before he continues his work on the mural.
Richly poor and madly sane
John is known to all along the Cut
As Lord Ledgie.
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