The Secret Stead is the pen name of a UK-based writer and
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This Dark England's feature is a smoky
signature that does defy the reading
of London's spires and architecture.
A dense smog smears its grey against the black
imposing outline of such a city,
where even in the day its shadows come
out to play. In this sanitorium
of stone in every Victorian home,
desires dress in strict sobriety,
repressed passions burn behind a fire
screen of morality, and this city
of London is a cold soup of poison
filled with a myriad of screams and dreams.
Some dream in the light. Some dream in the dark.
- Ch. 2 -
Some dream in the hazy opium dens
situated in the Limehouse wood shacks,
where dreams drift out of a smoky mire
inhaled in a single breath of fire.
Oriental patterns hang on muslin
drapes to divide each dreamer where they lie.
As they come to life, their small, sudden sighs
in constricted throats, widen with surprise
to see the dreams that come to dreaming eyes.
One such sleeper in this paid invention
of euphoria becomes a phoenix
reborn in its fire. His eyeslids close
filled with a myriad of dreams and screams.
His dream is the light. His dream is the dark.
- Ch. 3 -
Polly shuffles in worn out shoes across
the cobblestones of the docklands, stepping
over the horseshit as she manoeuvres
her swollen feet gingerly through its mud.
Too much gin at the inn, not enough food,
now she searches the docklands for a gent
or drunk sailor looking for a quick suck
to pay for her night and boarding house rent.
Her vision slips and slides; in desperation
she prays she might find even a merry
young buck just out from an opium den
still high enough to fancy old Polly,
filled with a myriad of dreams and screams.
Her dream is the light. Her dream is the dark.
- Ch. 4 -
Den shadows dress in passions of poison,
as dreamers writhe on sweat soaked mattresses.
Dreams drift out where they lie in its fire,
senses lost in a sudden sweet burning kiss
of scent down the pipe; blown back out again
to wait for the opium's song to sing,
to slowly fill the blood and drain the brain.
Smoke that fills and kills in the same refrain.
Is that a dragon he sees before him?
Give the beast a bow and beg his pardon.
The dreamer grins, feels his lobcock harden
in a fake simile of pleasure now,
filled with a myriad of dreams and screams.
His dream is the light. His dream is the dark.
- Ch. 5 -
Polly tries to ignore the growing itch
under the threadbare stitch of her garments,
and feels herself tighten from the cold
wind of the port drifting in from the East.
She worries she will not fit in any
nature of the beast; rubs herself to warm
the tools of her trade, and waits in shadow
to hear the tirade of singing men.
Suddenly tries not to remember then
her days as a charwoman, or that place,
the poor workhouse where she was raped for free,
but mostly by her bleeding poverty,
filled with a myriad of dreams and screams.
Her dream is the light. Her dream is the dark.
- Ch. 6 -
The dreamer opens his eyelids, but sees
nothing in this paid for oblivion.
He smiles crookedly at the irony,
for in oblivion what should you see?
He waits for the shapes and sounds to slither
back to him in the low fog of the den,
like a black snake he wishes to charm back.
He calls over an oriental man
who silently fills his clay pipe for him,
for the music he wants is not playing
this night; behind his eyelids the blood red
is no longer rushing back to his head,
filled with a myriad of dreams and screams.
His dream is the light. His dream is the dark.
- Ch. 7 -
Polly is upset; the gin is losing
its effect. A door opens, but not one
she wants to see: Here in that cloudy
room of memory she sees the faces
of father, husband, and lover merging
into a dark signature they signed over
her body, the thumbprints of their abuse
still bruises her skin and it's no use
to try and forget what is in the dirt
of hurt. She could not afford the water
or days to wash off the smell of their stench.
She fixes her bonnet; the night is spent,
filled with a myriad of dreams and screams.
Her dream is the light. Her dream is the dark.
- Ch. 8 -
The dreamer sits up and shakes himself off.
His skin crawls to feel hands touching him,
disembodied fingers picking at him
as a child would pick at a scar, relentless
anger pentrates him, black as tar,
and with a swollen gland, pipe drops from hand.
His euphoric deception is over.
The dreamer now awake, gets up to stand,
head bowed low, eyes darting away from men,
he begs pardon of the dragon again.
Making his way out of the opium den,
he quits the dreaming scene, swift and unseen,
filled with a myriad of dreams and screams.
His dream is the light. His dream is the dark.
- Ch. 9 -
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Polly knows when one door shuts another
will open, and the door of memory
shuts abruptly as she spies a den door
let loose a red lantern of ribboned light
into the dead night, she fixes her dress
to impress the gent who now appears.
The dreamer lifts up his head to see her
blue shawl, thinks of the dragon he fears.
They strike a deal, with a lick of lip,
but it is he who will cut a bargain
tonight: Out of the streets to a boarding
room, they go out of mind and out of sight,
filled with a myriad of dreams and screams.
She dreams for the light. He dreams for the dark.
Published 15 April, 2026
