Ode to the Hostess Trolley of Occult Significance

Ode to the Hostess Trolley of Occult Significance

(Apologies to Francis Thompson)

I fled from you down laurel driveways

Dank with mildew, moss and funk          

I fled, my furtive glance set sideways

Dancing o'er each mottled trunk

I ran pell-mell with terror pricking

Icy fingers tight around

My wav'ring heart a frantic ticking

From the dreadful, hated sound

Squeak, squeak! The sound of Hell's own castors

Creak, creak! The ancient dovetail's song

Urging ever louder, faster

Trundling these cold aeons long.

I slipped from you through creaking doorways

Into chilly marble halls

Past impassive knights in armour

Frozen beasts and cannonballs

I hid from you in musty libraries

Vaulted high with hidden lore

I fell in that disastrous twilight

To sleep at last upon the floor

And in my dreams the dark shelves parted

Like Mosaic waters cleft

By that great prophet in his ardour

Till there was only darkness left

Through that chasm on a chill wind

Came chthonic peals again

Familiar and remorseless rumbling

The source and cure of all my pain

Squeak, squeak! The sound of Hell's own castors

Creak, creak! The ancient dovetail's song

Urging ever louder, faster

Trundling these cold aeons long.

I hid again in rancid kitchens

Rank with lard and bitter fats

And held my breath in spidery cupboards

Filled with pans and angry cats

I trembled high in a windy attic

Against a crumbling chimney stack

Biting down on rising panic

lunacy or heart attack

And still far down some cobwebbed passage

Coming ever on and on

With the dire, infernal message

"Come to me, o famished son!"

At dawn I found some fleeting succour

In a pleasant drawing room

With the warm sun's soothing fingers

Kneading out the knots of doom

But as my weary body rested

In an armchair sure and soft

Distantly, I heard a rasping

As though in some high dreary loft

Squeak, squeak! The sound of Hell's own castors

Creak, creak! The ancient dovetail's song

Urging ever louder, faster

Trundling these cold aeons long.

"Come forth" I cried "O ghostly coward!

I cannot run, I will not hide,

Step out into the cleansing sunlight

This haunted fear I can't abide!"

Then suddenly the door swung open

As moved by ghoulish hands unseen

and on four cabalistic castors

Came the phantom of my dreams

Wreathed in curls of pungent incense

Laurel, Dittany and Sage

Came at last the Hostess Trolley

On its ghastly pilgrimage

Cream horns rampant on each filial

Spindles decked with treacle bake

Talismanic fondant fancies

Vanilla sponge and chocolate cake

Cherry Bakewell etched with symbols

Ancient wisdom to impart

Teetering towers of lemon drizzle

Currant buns and raspberry tart

And then as quickly as it entered

With a flash of choc éclair

Out through the flaking old French windows

It trundled on to who knows where?

On what mission creaks the Trolley?

What corridor or dusty nook?

What enigmatic Hajj, it's purpose?

What amulet or ancient book?

Squeak, squeak! The sound of Hell's own castors

Creak, creak! The ancient dovetail's song

Urging ever louder, faster

Trundling these cold aeons long.

By Mr Shillaker aged 48 and 3/4