I.

Jonathan and Andrew
were the handsome sons of the Vicar
at seventeen and fifteen
they had the vast world
before them to conquer.
Alexander was a tallish boy
of sixteen years with his nose
forever stuck in a book.
Oliver, fourteen, had so much to say,
but never words to say it.

Trevor was the Mayor’s son
of strapping sixteen.
He had so much to prove,
but his brother Nigel went on merit
of the opportunity of birth.
His awareness was not quite up
to the standards of his class –
nor was his agility equal
to the average fifteen year old,
he was always sporting a plaster
or weathered bandage of some sort.

Seamus, fourteen, took his cue
to follow all of the others.
And Tristan, the eldest at seventeen
took it upon himself
to be the faction leader –
there never was an election,
he grew into power unopposed.

Zachary, the poorest of the lot
might have been left out,
but since he was smart
the others liked him
and being young, at thirteen,
he was viewed as somewhat malleable.

Any other community might fear a group of boys
so tightly knit as these were
but Wickshaw had no need.
The boys took special pride in their Village,
they viewed themselves
as an unofficial protectorate.

Mischief was hardly ever on their minds
unless the recipient might receive a laugh as well.

II.

William Webber was the Village Constable
a round-ish cheery fellow.
The only time he was ever out of uniform –
dark-blue with lots of buttons –
was to go to bed or to play St. Nick
at the yearly Christmas Fete.
He patrolled Wickshaw always
with his baton and an apple in his hand.

On a warm night in autumn
in his little quaint cottage
the Constable was sound asleep.
Beside him in his bed
was his missus snoring loudly.
The Wickshaw boys descended
upon the village police house
like pack of wolves with a degree of stealth.
The casual observe – if there might have been one –
would have thought that this would be
an act of gross and malevolent vandalism.