The Inn at Whitewell

The Inn at Whitewell


Bloated, olive coated toad, alone, cornered in the dank cellar
Of peeled, teased, dejected Haute Brion wine labels
Lured from the green glass by years of seeping Hodder water


Below the Victorian kitchen’s fire of wet lurchers steaming
Smouldering white it’s cremated apple boughs
Perfuming the cauldron of mutton peas in yellowing vinegar
Rising through the Jacobean ceiling of elm floorboards
Bees- waxed and worn by now names in the graveyard


To a hushed night chamber where the seduced young girl
Arches her white buttocks like the first flurry of powdered snow
Her pale morning back dances to the candle’s silent shadows
Illuminating her undergarments discarded to the elm
Uttering words unspoken, written in deflowered blood
On the unmade bed sheets




Harry Mills
English Bakery, Boracay, Philippines,11th July 2012
From : The Shadow of a Dead Child