The Depth: Seventh Wake

Posted by ractrose on 11 May 2017 in Art, Poems

The Depth: Seventh Wake

The Folly




The Depth


It was Farringate, the city magistrate, who’d thought of his old colleague, Mr. Moss. Wake had come along (by private car) docilely enough. We shut hm in a room, there, at Abbothurst Farm. I think it is nothing—that is, I do not find it sinister—that your uncle’s house has since burnt down. I told Wake I thought he must know what to do. And he’d said to me, though reluctant, I believe, ‘Yes, likely I will.’ Last of all he said, ‘You’ll be careful, sir, of that man Howitt.’


I am in an attic, a low, chill chamber

Smelling of linens, wax, and dust

Samuels has placed a vial

With a plink of glass his fingers snuffs

Next the basin…shall I fill it?

And taking poison, wash my hands?


His hands betray a season come too late

I gave my soul to him a moment after

This, Wake, is what you never knew and hoped to fathom

He starts, and drops the victim’s head

That he had pressed his eyes to

The voice is Howitt’s

‘Yes, constable, very true. An old woman’s dream,

and her day help gone missing. Hysteria. The girl will turn up.’

Howitt seems to think of things. He chuckles,

and this rattling, lacking mirth, ascends the stairs.

‘You’ll see.’


Wake sees his half-closed door begin to swing.



The Depth
The Depth: Seventh Wake

She Foundered










(2017, Stephanie Foster)



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