The London Necropolis Railway

The London Necropolis Railway

by Kelda Crich

From the glass roof where no shadow falls,
from cool, arched, glazed London brick viaduct,
from lavish-wrought iron gates opening like a mouth,
from a temple to the modern.
The train in insistent steam departs.
Moves on.

Walk with softest step along narrow corridors.
Watch through the bevelled window
a bubble frozen in the pane.
The mourners jolting to the rhythm of the Necropolis Train
are a puzzle needing completion,
a missing piece, buried in your mind’s memorium.
Move on.

No coin pressed against your tongue.
No taste of copper in your parched mouth.
You have no obol for the ferryman.
Instead you clutch the coffin ticket for
your third class funeral.
Move on.

Here’s a lady dressed in lace as delicate as her
breathless face. So still, she watches
the children crying, unsoothed by the nurse maid,
or their silent father.
She joins you.
Move on.

Here’s a man, a likely fella
You might have met him down the docks
shared a drink, a laugh.
There are no words left to be said.
He joins you.
Move on.

Here are silent twins, old men
dressed in rags or silk, street women
still smelling of the Thames,
shrouded girls and worn-faced men.
Move on. Move on.
There are no words to be said
Move along the dark corridors, the vastly swelling hoard.

You who never travelled beyond the Bells.
Leaving all behind.
It was a good life,
yet you shrug it off like a worn coat.
No tears or grief.
All is past.
There is no emotion for the dead.
Move on.
Take this journey from Waterloo Bridge Station.
Take the London Necropolis to the Green Country.

* * * 

First published in Tales of the Talisman.

* * * 

Kelda Crich is a new born entity. She's been lurking in her creator's mind for a few years. Now she's out in the open. Find Kelda in London looking at strange things in London's medical museums or on her blog. Her poems have appeared in Nameless, Cthulhu Haiku II, Transitions and Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet. 

What inspires you to write and keep writing?

I'm inspired by the fact that when I do finish a poem or story, it's unique. I'm the only one who could have created that particular work. Good or bad, it's all about meeee. Oh, and the reader. Thank you, kind reader. Without you, I would be nothing.

What do you think is the attraction of the fantasy genre?

The fantasy genre can be a window into past cultures. How did people think in times past? How did their culture shape their actions and their imaginations?And does that shine a light onto us today?

Cup and Ring Carving

Cup and Ring Carving
by Kelda Crich

Take this pick made from deer horn that you found in the woods where she liked to walk.
Leave the village where your brothers silently split thin branches. New wood, green wood, does not burn well.
Walk onto the moors which are bathed in sunlight, sliding through the clouds, patterning the land bright and happy as cheerful woven cloth.
Go to the outcrop, where she would sit, and the wind blowing her hair from her face. The wind snatching her laughter.
Fall to your knees.
The wind blows cold on the moors. Think that you will never have the strength to rise.

Take this horn pick and into the stone make the carving. The cup, the depression, encircled by two rings. Two rings for each of the ten years of her life.
Look at the small symbol. Simple, unlike the carvings on the boulders of the barrow, interlaced connecting of carved rings, and spiral, ladders, linking all to all.
Now the ashes of her bones are mixed with the dead. Think that she is free.
This carving. The cup and the two rings. So simple, like her life. Run your fingers gently over the stone. Remove the flecks of dust.
Think that such a small carving might be washed away by wind and rain, but that it will endure for a good few years. Think that you can come here and remember.

* * *

On the prehistoric cup and ring carving etched into a Yorkshire stone, five thousand years ago. The meaning of such petroglyphs has been lost.

Image adapted from Laxe das Rodas by Froaringus.

* * *

Kelda Crich is a new born entity. She's been lurking in her creator's mind for a few years. Now she's out in the open. Find her in London looking at strange things in medical museums or on her blog: http://keldacrichblog.blogspot.com/

What inspires you to write and keep writing?

I'm inspired by the fact that when I do finish a poem or story, it's unique. I'm the only one who could have created that particular work. Good or bad, it's all about meeee. Oh, and the reader. Thank you, kind reader. Without you, I would be nothing.

What do you think is the attraction of the fantasy genre?

The fantasy genre can be a window into past cultures. How did people think in times past? How did their culture shape their actions and their imaginations?And does that shine a light onto us today?