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