Oh, sweet Lady; can you hear the whispered words soft-spun about
these close-versed couplets couched in gentle subterfuge... so, others doubt
if they have actually read what they think, they have seen... or have inferred
from what would seem a simple poem.  We alone, can read the words.

Oh, sweet Lady; can you feel the soft caress of gentle longing
woven through the very fabric of these words, each one belonging
to no-one but you; you have my thoughts... you have my heart; take care...
we must not lose the soft delight of this poetic Love Affair.

Oh, sweet Lady; in this world, we are unchained... we can be free
to whisper all the sweetest things that, in the real world, cannot be
anything, but hoped for; only then, in sad love.... unrequited.
Here, there can be no betrayal... faithfulness remains unblighted.

Oh, sweet Lady; do you feel the sensuous glide of thoughts begin
to gently touch your secret, inner feelings... does the warmth, therein
contained in whispered words of love all written, but, still from my lips...
gently stroke your mind, like velvet skin touched by soft fingertips?

Oh, sweet Lady; we can live forever... safe, within this place,
our words and thoughts become immortal; love, time just cannot erase.
We can never grow old down the drifting years, as others do...
The Poetry of love is ageless... it will still come shining through.

Oh, sweet Lady; if, but one, or two of our soft, heartfelt thoughts
are still remembered, down the years... perhaps, some poet, who has sought
the secret of the True Romantic... whispered dreams, still there, may spy;
and weave a gentle poem of a sweet romance t'wixt you, and I.

Beneath the Limestone edge of the escarpment called the Cotswold Hills
lies the market town of Stroud, which once, was home to diverse mills
producing cloth; for countless streams flow down from off the Wolds, so high,
and wool aplenty, thereabouts ... sheep country, far as meets the eye.
And, spread out like a starfish arms; five valleys all about, do spread
around the town; 'though, more a pentagram, some locals whisperingly said.
Vague talk of Witchery and Covens, Pagan rites ... black candles lit;
it is, indeed, a curious place; whatever is the truth of it.

And, should you take the second Northern valley... once the old Coach road
that ran from Bath to Worcester; in the dark of night, you need be bold.
By light of day, a pretty route that skirts the valley pleasingly
up into Slad; the birthplace of the Famous Author: Laurie Lee.
Cider with Rosie... you can almost feel the echoes, hereabout;
for time has almost passed this little village by, there is no doubt.
The woods, the meadows where he spent his childhood ... much the same, today;
but, this is window dressing; for the real tale is two miles away.

Further up the valley is a windswept, empty place... all gaunt;
thrusting out above the woods, as if, its nakedness to flaunt.
A wild, and lonely shoulder of the Wolds... where only grass will grow,
where once, two Coach-roads crossed each other; many, many years ago.
Perhaps, if you are sharp of eye, you may make out the traces, still,
of coach wheel ruts in overgrown, green lanes which time has not yet filled.
The modern road runs parallel to the old Bath-Worcester coaching run;
And this, is then... Bull's Cross; and now, this story really has begun.

For it is said, on certain nights, about the hour of Twelve Midnight,
with Bull's Cross silent as the grave... all bathed in leprous, pale moonlight;
particularly, on New Years Eve; if dread misfortune strikes your soul
you may well see the Bull's Cross coach all thundering down, out of control.
The coach, all silver-grey; the galloping horses... flaring... runaway;
the pistol crack of snapping harness; coachman crying... "Clear the way!"
and then, the sound of splintering shafts... the screams of passengers thrown down
upon the wind-bent wilderness; all scattered, dying all around.

Some old disaster lost in time; played out at midnight, certain nights...
and those who have not seen it, boast they have... and those who have, keep tight
their lips;
for it is said, the sighting of the spectral coach will lay
a curse upon those witnesses who let their loose tongues run away,
and babble of what they have seen... the moonlit, splintered wheels a-spin;
they turn chalk-white, their teeth fall out, they meet their death by trampling.
And, there is more; there is another phantom lurking in this place,
and if you meet him, you must never, ever look him in the face.

For just below Bull's Cross, there stands a wood... dank, yellow... overgrown,
known locally as Deadcombe Bottom; not a place to go alone.
And here, there is a cottage... tumbledown, and open to the skies,
deep in the wood; all hidden from the passing, curious, prying eyes.
For Bull's Cross is a jutting baldness all the villages can see;
a perfect place to raise a Gallows... so, a Gallows, there would be.
The cottage, then... was specially chosen as the Bull's Cross Hangman's home;
close to his place of work, yet hidden... somewhere, people did not roam.

He lived there with his son, and worked his trade; he was a skilful man.
Times were hard, and he was busy; nightly... felons to be hanged.
One stormy night... a routine summons... a shivering lad brought to his hand.
Used to working in the dark... the lad despatched... he paused to stand
and light his pipe;
the moon slipped out, and lit the gallows, pale and wan,
and, in the rain-soaked face that stared at him... the Hangman saw his son.
To his companions he said not a word... just turned, and walked away;
and in his cottage, on a hook, he hanged himself without delay.

There is, but one wall standing now... and in that wall, a great iron hook
blood-red with rust... the very same from which, his final step, he took.
Still dank and yellow is the wood... silent, bird-less; not a place
you would wander in by choice... walk quickly by... increase your pace.
For it is said, on stormy nights he wanders all about Bull's Cross
searching for his son... and, if you see his face, then you are lost.
Condemned to walk with him forever, upon that bleak and windswept rise...
I wouldn't walk up there at Midnight;
'nor would you... if you are wise.

The fly-blown, garish, neon advertising sign glares flickeringly
down on the sticky, beer-stained bar; and glistens on the smoke-stained walls.
He sits alone, and silently; his whisky glass held carelessly,
turning, turning, in his hand; his cell-phone, mute... she never calls.
And, hasn't called now, for close on a month... not since that dreadful night
he came home to an empty, cold apartment... and, no sign of her.
The letter... ominous, on the table; which he knew, one day, she'd write,
for, though they loved each other, he could always feel a shadow... there.

She wrote... there was no-one to blame; just that their love, they had outgrown,
and she had met somebody else; She could not stay... she had to leave.
To stay, would be to live a lie... he would be better on his own;
so he could find somebody else... a love, in which he could believe.
The letter burned into his brain. He read it once, he read it twice;
had everything been just a game?... the whisky bottle smiled at him.
He climbed inside to drown himself; his heart was cold... as cold as ice,
and, in the whisky's warm, bright kiss... his eyes, with helpless tears, did swim.

And, there he stayed, until the whisky bottle held no Golden smile,
and then, he stumbled to his bed... but, there would be no comfort there.
No familiar warmth, so soft... his sleepy senses, to beguile;
just a linger on the pillow of her sweetly perfumed hair.
And, so he lay there, in the darkness, until he could stand no more;
he wandered out into the night, to greet again his Golden friend.
Through the cold, and rain-swept streets; from seedy bar, to seedy bar...
knowing this would be his future; knowing this would never end.

The ******, lounging further down the bar, watched with voracious eyes...
slipping skirt a little higher; stocking tops eased into view.
Watching coldly from beneath her green eye-shadowed, brash disguise;
but, he scarcely glanced at her... a total waste of time... she knew.
And, time was money... so, she rose, and tottered out on spiky heels;
his Golden friend will understand... his Golden friend won't make him cry.
He swirls the ice cubes in his glass... his Golden friend knows how he feels;
he misses her... her warmth, her smile; It's not the ***... *** he can buy.

The fly-blown, garish neon, advertising sign glares flickeringly
down on the sticky, beer-stained bar; and glistens on the smoke-stained walls.
He sits alone, and silently; his whisky glass held carelessly,
turning, turning in his hand... his cell-phone, mute... she never calls.
He waves a banknote at the barman; same again... the bottle, too.
He gazes down into his glass, and contemplates his Golden friend.
His Golden friend will never leave... his Golden friend is always true.
Remember, then...
a broken heart will never quite completely mend.

Poetry is a curious thing; it has a power we cannot see
but only feel... perhaps, not even that; just sense, instinctively.
The words a poet uses, and the order in which they appear,
can mean all things to all people; you read in them what you desire.

Perhaps, you can see love, or longing; tears, or laughter... hope or fear;
some star-crossed tryst... some misty dream; it is a thing all poets share.
There are so many variations; weaving rhyme in different styles;
a Golden world, so full of promise... gentle smiles; or wistful sighs?

Do you want to soar above the mountains in the endless blue?
Do you want to wander mist-wreathed lands where, still, the Moonflowers grow?
Do you want a tale of unrequited love, soft drenched in tears;
half-lost, but half-remembered through the shadows of long drifting years?

Or, would you rather craft a subtle, perfect Sonnet for your sweet?
the quatrains merging elegant... the couplets rhyming, fair and neat.
A work of such sweet elegance... your lover's heart is in your hand;
these things are all here to be found in this poetic promised land.

This is where true magic lies within us all... no more... no less;
for, deep down... we are all Romantics; we all seek the soft caress
of fantasy... some sweet Idyll of tragic love, now lost in time;
these whispered dreams of captive hearts all bound in gently flowing rhyme.

The Seventeenth and Eighteenth Century Turnpikes and the Posting Inns
are scattered all across the County; many tales... where to begin?
Perhaps, to paint a picture of the countryside, to show just why
so many Blackguards, Highwaymen and Footpads there, in wait, did lie.
Compassing round Gloucester Vale, the Cotswold Scarp that reaches steep
up to the High Wolds would confound the Mails... their schedules to keep;
and as the horses struggled up the hills; at length, the Wolds to see...
The Highwaymen would fall on them, to pillage with impunity.

There were five major Mail Coach routes across the County in those days.
The Bristol-Oxford-London route was favourite, in many ways;
the long climb out, up Dowdeswell Hill... three miles of twisting, shadowy lane;
then on to Shipton Bank... yet two more miles of sweating, tiring strain.
On into Compton Parish where, God speed... soon into sight, would come...
Puesdown; for a change of horses, and a rest for everyone.
The Puesdown Inn... a lonely refuge on the road to London Town;
crouching four-square on the High Wolds... sturdy built, of honeyed stone.

The Mail Coach had departed Bristol early, in the morning light,
but, by the time that they accomplished Puesdown... slowly crept the night
upon them... whilst the Postern loaded Blunderbuss decisively,
the travellers watched in trepidation, wondering what their fate would be.
Next morn, they need cross Compton Bottom... on up then, to Hangman's Stone
where stood the Parish Gibbet... and this Gibbet never stood alone
Always, someone neck-roped there; soft tinkling in the wind... their chains;
perhaps, some plough-boy blinded by the promise of ill-gotten gains.

Perhaps, some Highwayman whose luck ran out... as luck is bound to do.
Perhaps, some Footpad who slit one too many throats... for shillings, few.
Perhaps, some Blackguard who, not waiting for consent... despoiled some maid;
But, not as yet...The Duke; the Highwayman of whom, all were afraid.
The Duke... he prowled the Oxford road from Shipton Bank to Windrush Pike;
he gave no quarter to his prey... much like an Adder swiftly strikes.
The merest hint of least resistance, and his pistols... they would speak,
cutting down those who would dare gainsay the plunder he did seek.

Until, one night, he overplayed his hand whilst holding up The Mail.
A storm-swept, snow-blown wintering night... the night his pistol primings failed.
Calling them "Stand and Deliver"... firing, as they swift retired;
both pistols flashing in the pan... loads not discharging... both misfired!
Swift-wheeling round his mount to flee... the Postern did discharge a ball;
clatteringly, The Duke sped down the icy road... he did not fall.
Had they hit him? No-one knew; at Puesdown, though... they knew the score;
The Duke, swift bleeding from the chest, leaned, beating on the Taproom door.

But, they would not bid him enter... casements locked... doors barred, all sound.
Without the Inn... an hour or more, they say he dragged himself around,
dripping blood; beseeching mercy...a thing, his victims he denied.
They found him in the yard, next morn. Alone out there, he froze... and died.
The Parish Constables then bundled him off, up to Hangman's Stone,
and hoisted him upon the Gibbet... fettered, chained, to swing alone.
A grim, and awful warning to dissuade those culls, who thought to stray
into a life of easy pickings... robbing on the King's Highway.

The Road to Oxford long-since changed; a bypass now skirts Northleach Town.
The Puesdown Inn still stands four-square... still sturdy built, of honeyed stone.
The old road now has little use... odd courting couples... local folk;
but in the Hamlets there are stories; whispers... words not often spoke,
about strange things out on that ancient Coaching road near Hangman's Stone.
They say it's not a place to linger in the night... 'nor be alone.
They say The Duke still prowls this place, still seeking vengeance for his fate;
They say that if you hear the clattering hooves... then, for you... it's too late.

And, at The Puesdown Inn, they say, some guests hear bangings on the door
of what was once, the Taproom... perhaps, just the wind? No-one is sure.
They say you may hear footsteps dragging round, and round those Honeyed walls...
and rattlings on the casements... and soft groaning... but, what then, the cause?
For Puesdown is an Ancient Inn; its timbered beams all tired and worn;
they creak and groan as they cool in the night... was thus, a legend born?
Is it just wind out in the trees; soft whimpering on the Wolds, so high?
Or... is it, indeed, The Duke... still seeking somewhere warm to die?

The place is Gloucester City; I'm on foot patrol, Beat Number Five;
The time... 2-45am, the City dead; nothing alive.
Progressing through another lonely night-shift... not a soul around,
the dead streets echo to my footsteps; beyond that, the only sound
is the wind that whimpers through the narrow alleys, here and there;
I turn off Westgate Street, down into College Court... the thoroughfare
leading into College Green, where the great Cathedral lies.
The little passageway is shadowed; carefully, I cast my eyes
across the shop-doors... check the locks, shine my torch for better view;
then, by the The House of the Tailor of Gloucester... I walk beneath the arch into
College Green... the car park's silent... there in splendid majesty
towers the mighty stone Cathedral, into the night, in front of me.

My footsteps echo like the crack of doom upon the old flagstones
beneath the border of the trees that guard the crouching houses thrown
along the south side of the Upper Green, as I walk down to turn
into the precincts, skirting round the Great East Window; to discern
how many drunks and dossers I might find within this hallowed ground...
but as I pass the south transept... something makes me turn around.
There; by a small door, stands a cassocked figure in the shadowy light...
who lifts his hand and calls to me...
"Goodnight, my son; be safe, this night."
I study him; he's sixty-ish; he wears a beard... his face is thin;
As I make to answer him, he turns away and walks back in
through the door into the great Cathedral, and there, echoes, plain...
the screak of ancient hinges, and the rattle of the keys again...
being turned...

... how very odd. I'd better check all is secure...
it's very late for Godly works; and so, I carefully check the door.
Nothing moves; and so, I take up my patrol once more, around
the outer east end of the massive nave, where, in the past, I've found
the dead-beats, and the drunks, and dossers slumped against the buttressed wall...
but tonight, it's silent as the grave... there's no-one here at all.
I quietly walk on down the path towards the ruined infirmary...
a single, standing stretch of arched wall; where my footsteps hollowly
echo in the silence as I move on down to Miller's Green...
almost as if I'm being followed... but there's nothing to be seen.
But, even if there was... the shadows here are dark, with no street lights,
except the odd, wall-mounted lantern glowing dimly in the night.

This really is a creepy place at night; of that, there's little doubt.
I walk on past the end-wall arch and the echo following me, fades out.
My boots crunch on the gravel as I pass the Little Cloister House;
The ancient, timbered, stepped-up gables loom... all's quiet as a mouse...
when suddenly... a crash and clatter...
WHAT THE ******* WAS THAT?
I freeze... and then, a dark shape dashes out... it's just a sodding cat
rummaging the waste-bins; and I breath again... that was a fright!
Greenly eyeing me, the cat slinks off beyond the pool of light
thrown by the streetlamp on the corner. Miller's Green is dark and still;
before me looms the shadowed, vaulted passageway through which I will
walk back into College Green where, to my right, the Almonry
stands hard by St Mary's Gate; once, entrance to the Monastery...

that stood, in medieval times; here; I resume patrol again...
I pass beneath the gateway's ribbed arch, stepping into Three ***** Lane.
There before me, in St Mary's Square... the ornate Monument
to martyred Bishop John Hooper of Gloucester... recreant Protestant;
who never would recant, and thus, for heresy... at length, condemned
by ****** Mary; the, then Catholic Queen; would meet his gruesome end
by being burned alive at this same spot... where now, the only sound
is the mournful whimper of the wind, all softly spinning round
the intricate, carved stonework, as he gazes down towards the gate
as if to say... "Move on, my son; guard The Queen's Peace... it's getting late."
And so, I walk up Three ***** Lane, and turn back into Westgate Street;
patrolling up towards the City Centre, where the four Beats meet.

No sign of Tim on Southgate Three Beat... he must be down by the quay...
Ah!... there's Mike across on Four Beat... Hey! He's flashed his torch at me...
Hurry on up to The Cross... What's up?... He laughs; "I'm bored to hell...
it's quiet as a ****** grave... what's your patch like?... come on, do tell."
I smile; "It's much the same as yours... the only really big event
was... a **** cat raiding bins... d'you think that's "Loitering with Intent?"
Better not to mention what I think I saw in College Green...
it would rather blow the "Street-cred," and... I don't want to be seen
as twitchy... but I'll check it out this afternoon; you never know...
"OK" he says, "I'll see you later." and he turns away, to go
back down Eastgate Street, and I continue on my lonely Beat;
shining torchlight into doorways, down the length of Northgate Street.

After I had had some sleep, I came back down to College Green,
and entering the Great Cathedral, told the Verger what I'd seen;
asking him if all was well... he looked at me most curiously
then motioned I should follow him along the nave, to where would be...
the door; but when I looked, I could see nothing but a solid wall...
where the door should be... indeed, there was no sign of door at all.
He said there once had been a doorway here, three hundred years ago,
where they gave charity to beggars; but times change, alas... and so
the door was walled up solidly in Cotswold stone; three full feet wide...
the outer door was left in place; so as not to spoil the southern side
of the outer prospect of this Gothic architectural jewel...
I stood; mouth wide in disbelief... staring like some mindless fool.

He watched my face, and then he grinned; "What you saw son, there is no doubt;
was Bishop Hooper... at this time of year he often walks about
his Bishopric. You aren't the first young Copper... and won't be the last
to meet with Bishop Hooper at this time of year when you go past
the south transept as you patrol your patch, on down to Miller's Green;
the old, false door in the south-side nave... that's usually where he's seen
early in the mornings of the first few day of February...
always from that same old door, around the anniversary
of his death down on St Mary's Square, in 1555;
we've seen him once or twice in here... almost as though he's still alive.
Almost as if he's checking up to make sure all is safe and well
with Diocese, and Dean and Chapter... and not least... his Cathedral.

Coppers come and Coppers go... and Gloucester changes down the years;
So does the Policing; no more foot patrols... just area cars.
College green is gated now... and locked; so they cruise quietly past;
and Bishop Hooper, it would seem, has found his peaceful rest at last.
No hollow echoeing footsteps approaching from St. Michael's Gate;
No Constable on foot patrol... no need for him to quietly wait
at the old, false door to bid the Guardian of The Peace goodnight
as he patrols his beat... expecting drunks, and not a creepy fright!
Yes; Gloucester, it has changed since I patrolled those streets so long ago...
but College Green is much the same; it hasn't really changed, although
the big, old trees are pollarded... the shadows are not quite so deep...
but still... the atmosphere is here... and certainly, the chilly creep
and shiver, as his Monument looms, dark beyond St Mary's Gate...
and the wind gives plaintive moan in requiem to religious hate.

When the last Morning star softly fades in the dawning
of the pale, misty light of the last summer morning.
When the last blossom smiles in the last Sun-ray, beaming,
and the last story ends with all hopes, and all dreaming.
As the last swallow soars on the last winds a'breathing,
and the last butterfly lifts her wings, for the leaving...

I shall love you, still.

When the last Dragonfly spreads her wings in the warm glow,
for to dart her last flight in the last flowering meadow.
As the last leaves burn gold in the deep forest greening,
and the last Bumblebee dreams her last, honeyed dreaming.
As the last Swan glides down to the last river's wending,
and the last crystal spring softly flows to its ending...

I shall love you, still.

When the last Rainbow smiles through the last gentle shower,
and the last petal falls from the last fading flower.
As the last Skylark lifts, in her last spiral weeping,
And the last cloudling melts in the last azure deeping.
When the last birdsong rings through the last woodland glading,
and the last Eagle soars; her last, sad cry soft fading...

I shall love you, still.

When the last Mountain range crumbles down, swiftly breaching,
and whatever might be, is now far from the reaching.
When the last Ocean breaks her last wave, softly foaming,
and the last Sea-birds cry on the last breeze a'roaming.
As the last sands of time softly run to their dooming,
with the last precious hours of the last day swift looming...

l shall love you, still.

When the last Sun is goldening, with the last dusk a'creeping,
and the last Evening star shimmers to her last sleeping.
As the last pale moon drifts to her last wane-some flowering,
and the last twilight glim of the last day is lowering.
As the last stars grow dark, with the last night a'deeping,
and all that was once, is no more for the keeping...

I shall love you, still.