The Tourist

                      By Maud Boreham

He explored the town above the sea, so steeped in it’s antiquity

Filmed it’s narrow winding streets and cursed the cobbles ‘neath his feet

where red roofs tumbled, leaned and lurched and whispered secrets to the church.

That patriach of timeless grace with clock inscribed above it’s face…

It told how quickly time did pass, like shadows fleeting over grass.

With camera shutter down – he left – quite sure he’d ‘done’ the town.

Poor misguided fool was he to think he knew it’s history

Perhaps ’twas wise that he should go – maybe some things he shouldn’t know characters he’d best not meet when strolling down through Watchbell Street.

The shadows of the Mermaid Inn might have sheltered Dr. Syn disguised with muffler round his throat – the Good Book hidden in his coat.

Or smugglers of the Hawkhurst Gang – villians all condemmed to hang.

In the hush of Turkey Lane he might have met with ghosts again

Heard Cantator’s anguished cry as poor Amanda flitted by. If he turned another page, upon the church – yard’s moonlit stage

He’d see John Breeds raise butchers knife to take poor Alan Grebel’s life.

No. Better that he makes for home and leave the old town ghosts alone…

Smugglers – lovers – let them be, and go home with your pottery.

Rye’s Own February 2004

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