The Legend Of Spring-Heeled Jack Poem by Richard D Remler

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In the ghastly dark of autumns rise
A gentle fog reached through the skies
And rested over glen and dale,
To seek out the shades night would avail.

Red stones were damp from recent rain,
That failed an iron weather vane
Which flaked its whispers to the dust
Of almost seven years of rust.

Distant birds he could not see
Danced branch to branch, and tree to tree,
As fires blazed and embers flew
From chimneys old and chimneys new.

And the rats, they tripped the thoroughfare-
Their black-tipped noses in the air,
Their whiskers bent into a night,
That never shared the morning light.

This era had begun anew,
And London town was growing too!
Expanding ever high and low,
For a London not afraid to grow.

Victoria was now the Queen,
And her Britain was a grand machine.
Industry and trade would be
Britain's immortality.

But even Victoria, in her regal state,
Was ill prepared to expediate
An answer quick, and wise, and fair,
For a public who was unaware.

As the light fog draped the carrefour,
Where stood a businessman...and little more.
The day had surely took its toll,
Enough to task the heart, the soul...

When it jumped the railing of the dead,
And swept the gloaming overhead,
To land with but a thudding blow
Upon the dampened street below.

The thing was large and tall, a shadowed fiend,
Unnatural ears, an odd machine,
With horrid eyes, darkened and red.
As though it were a demon in its stead..

And the businessman stumbled, aye,
In the shadows long, dark and gray,
Until the demon skirled fair and leapt,
Into the night where all dark things are kept.

Still, lore and legend have their way
Of saying what they want to say...
They search for flesh and fertile soil,
Within our paltry, mortal coil.

In all the pubs the story traveled clear,
From face to face, and from ear to ear.
Of a dark in the night, and of eyes that would glow
Deeper than the evening winds can blow.

And Barnes Common never shared the same
Calm that bared its common name.
As a myth and lore seeped through every crack,
Of the legend they called Springheeled Jack.

Mary Stevens, they say, walked cautiously,
Down the narrow roads of Battersea,
She had just visited her Mum, her Dad,
And had lingered no more than a tad,

And against the cold, unnatural chill,
She started back up toward lavender Hill
Where Mary worked as a servant hire,
Even the humble folk admire.

Though it was late of eve, and dark of night,
With a moon-fall wide and fair and bright,
Clapham Commons seemed a shard, a dart,
When Mary Stevens drew a start,

A something tall, and strong, and dark
Leapt from the shadows gray and stark,
And held her tight, in deaths embrace.
It even tried to kiss her face.

It tore her clothes, it touched her skin.
Such strength it had, so laced with sin.
T'was cold, t'was clammy, like something dead.
And oh, young Mary screamed with dread.

And that's when, oh, it leapt up high.
It disappeared into the sky.
And though neighbors searched and searched around,
The demon soul could not be found.

Though on the following day, a Coachman said
Twas not for fate, he'd sure be dead.
For a beast leapt before his carriage ride,
And if it weren't for fate, he'd have surely died.

The beast escaped into the sky
Jumping e're a wall over nine feet high.
While babbling a haunting, ringing howl,
A laughter fained and bent and fowl.

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Jane Alsop claimed the bloke
Hid under a heavy cloak,
A frightening and hideous sight
He Breathed fire blue and white.

He tore at her that quiet eve,
In a nightmare she could not believe.
She fought back, she screamed, she ran.
But she could not out-run the man.

His claws were sharp and cold as steel,
He tore her skin as if to kill.
But she pulled away in utter fright
And ran into the dark of night.

Lucy Scales was not alone.
She and her sister were headed home,
After visiting her brother for the day,
They sought to go a quicker way...

Her brother, a butcher man by trade,
Always ever under-paid.
And Green Dragon Alley just seemed right,
So up they scurried through the night.

When a quiet stranger caught the air
As the sisters hurried there.
He bore a gentleman's frame.
He wore a cloak, and spat a flame

That blinded Lucy, and she fell,
And cried and writhed in utter hell.
Her brother heard her frightful cry
And raced to where his sister lie.

Expecting worse, 'twas all he found,
His sisters there upon the ground.
Weeping fretful in the gray,
And he safely led them both away.

But later, when the morning came,
Lucy talked about the flame,
About the man who never spoke,
Far more odd than other folk...

The man who would not touch her skin,
And had not a single word to say,
Who held a lantern in the wind
And then just turned and walked away.

Slavish Girls and Scullions told their dreadful tales,
From Hammersmith to Kensington and through.
A gardener in Rosehill. A girl from Lewisham,
Cursed a thing nobody really knew.

'It's a devil! '
'It's a demon! '
'It's a phantom! '
'It's a ghost! '
Theories ran
Their gauntlet
Through each town,
From coast to coast.

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And his legend grew
As legends do -
Through ages ancient,
Ages new.

Across the moors where battles rage.
Where sonneteers set dreams to page.
Where destiny tempts foolish man,
To steal away what life it can.

Some claim it simply stole away
Into the melancholy gray -
Where it met its fateful end.
Where Death and Dross are now its friend.

Some fear it still hides in the night -
In the darkest shade that fears the light.
Some claim hell felt so all alone
It called its wiley servant home.

It's said, perhaps, the creature fell
Into the deepest, darkest well,
And drowned in such a horrid way,
They can still hear its anguished cries today.

Some still claim the tale untrue,
That tales like this are nothing new.
Fables dusted free of rot,
A poor man's vintage Lancelot.

Some claim that the Beast moved on
Through London town and well beyond.
Some say Death claimed it one dark day,
And dragged its wicked soul away.

But I fear it's still about, and well.
Creeping through the dead of night.
Quiet as the hounds of hell.
Drifting through the morrow's light,

Its laughter cold as winters breath,
Echoing its haunt of death,
Waiting ever patiently
For hollows eve to set it free.

Where twilight's ever haunting sting
Shares the breathless echoes nightmares bring,
And an abyss of darkness, cold and black,
In the legend and lore of Springheeled Jack.


Copyright © MMXIV Richard D. Remler