Falstaff and Me
The Unsown Field: Canto 8
October 27, 2019

Though Geoffrey’s judgment you may judge a bit harsh,
I trust you will tarry with his tale a bit more.
He felt lately fearful of his fellow companions,
for something sinister did seep from their tone.
Through the quiet calm his questions would break,
though silence would swallow all sounds they could make.

“Though you want for your way, if the whereabouts be known
of our parting place, then part with its name?”

Through the stark empty spaces that stood for their eyes
they mutually minded while mute, then replied:
“Not far to our family, a furlong away.”

“A furlong’s as far as a field’s length or two.
So you lodge in the woods? And you’re lost yet so close?”

Through the desolate darkness that doubles for eyes,
and without any words, they once more conferred.
They were silent a second, then said their reply:
“We can’t harm or hurt you. We’re hardly grown.”

“You said you were scared, though it seems you are not.
And you’re seriously starting to spook this poor dolt.”

Through their gloomy gaps they gazed in brief,
though mute once more, then they made their reply:
“We’re much too meek to mill you. Please come.”

“Do you have no house? My hunch is you don’t.”

Through their vacant voids did their visages speak,
though mute once more, then they made their reply:
“We’re way to weak to wilt you. Please come.”

“The woods are wilting! I wonder the reason.
Merry is May, but it mocks at the season;
all the lonely limbs the leaves have jilted.”

Through their pitch-like pits they peered and conferred,
though mute once more, then they made their reply:
“We’re far too fragile to farm you. Please come.”

“I hope not to hurry. I’m hale when I’m well.
Though sickness did stall me, I’m slow to progress.”

Through their wayward windows they watched and conferred,
though mute once more, then they made their reply:
“We’re still too small to skin you. Please come.”

Another field further, through foliage could be seen
a shape in the shaw: a shed, their stop.
Aside they stepped and stood at the door
and gestured for Geoffrey, whose judgment came late,
to walk within, where he waited for them.
He stepped in a sludge and sank to his ankles.

“You guys? I’m glued! Please get me from this!”
The doors they dogged until darkness remained,
and he certainly sensed that he sank a hair more.
In the bubbling brine imbibing him
he feared other fools were there further along,
sharing this shed until shelved in a can,
no longer alive, or lost beyond hope.
Those bad little boys beyond the door
roared up a ruckus by revving a motor.
A bescumbered stew spouted through a trough,
and the filfth at his feet frothed until yesty.

“How long will she loiter at the Lurrel Greens,
how long will I linger in this lathering jelly,
ere Burve shall bother to bolt to my rescue?
Why, Dolt and Dummy you may dub me both.
O Burve, brave Burve! a boss you will be!
I will vaunt your virtues, no value I’ll spare!
I will worship you well, you wondrous green girl!
Burve, don’t let me die in this destitute hive.
Burve, pity my peril! I’ll be pickled alive!”