The Rustle Of Silk And The Indistinct Murmur Of Words Poem by Mary Champion

Exiled from the city by enemy action,
lost in the intimidating emptiness of the countryside,
two children explore an overgrown garden.
Amidst the tangle of weeds and brambles
the heavy scent of old fashioned roses
hangs in the air.
Negotiating a broken pathway
they glimpse, through the trees,
the blackened shell of a once impressive house -
something to remind them of home.

Emboldened by the need to impress each other,
they commence their exploration.
But there is little of interest amidst the piles of rubble.
They move back to the rewilded garden
and, settling beneath a great oak,
they eat the picnic packed by the kindly farmer's wife.
Afterwards, drowsy in the early summer heat,
they fall asleep then wake at dusk.
They sense that they are no longer alone…
From the wreck of a nearby summer house
they can hear sounds -
the rustle of silk and the indistinct murmur of words.

But there is no one there…
there is definitely no one there…
All the proud pretence of courage deserts them
and they beat a hasty retreat.
But that night they both dream;
dream of the disembodied sounds…
the rustle of silk and the indistinct murmur of words.

***

Dusk is falling…
Returning unusually early from a trip to the city,
relieved to be breathing the clean country air,
the man walks briskly up the well-tended pathway
towards his great mansion.
The heavy scent of old fashioned roses
hangs in the air.

But something takes his attention
and draws him towards the summer house…
the rustle of silk and the indistinct murmur of words…

His wife and his best friend in amorous embrace.

Shocked into silence he withdraws,
enters the house and takes his shotgun from its case.
Stealthily returning,
he slays his friend
and his weeping wife.

After the fire had taken hold
he stood, dumbstruck by the horror.
He tried to banish the memory,
but the sounds followed him,
unceasingly,
all the way to the gallows…
the rustle of silk and the indistinct murmur of words.