Superb owl, bad call

Lay long till Mr. Gawden was gone out being to take a little journey. Up, and Creed and I some good discourse, but with some trouble for the state of my Lord’s matters. After walking a turne or two in the garden, and bid good morrow to Mr. Gawden’s sons, and sent my service to the ladies, I took coach after Mr. Gawden’s, and home, finding the towne keeping the day solemnly, it being the day of the King’s murther, and they being at church, I presently into the church, thinking to see Mrs. Lethulier or Batelier, but did not, and a dull sermon of our young Lecturer, too bad. This is the first time I have been in this church since I left London for the plague, and it frighted me indeed to go through the church more than I thought it could have done, to see so [many] graves lie so high upon the churchyards where people have been buried of the plague. I was much troubled at it, and do not think to go through it again a good while. So home to my wife, whom I find not well, in bed, and it seems hath not been well these two days. She rose and we to dinner, after dinner up to my chamber, where she entertained me with what she hath lately bought of clothes for herself, and Damask linnen, and other things for the house. I did give her a serious account how matters stand with me, of favour with the King and Duke, and of danger in reference to my Lord’s and Sir G. Carteret’s falls, and the dissatisfaction I have heard the Duke of Albemarle hath acknowledged to somebody, among other things, against my Lord Sandwich, that he did bring me into the Navy against his desire and endeavour for another, which was our doting foole Turner. Thence from one discourse to another, and looking over my house, and other things I spent the day at home, and at night betimes to bed. After dinner this day I went down by water to Deptford, and fetched up what money there was of W. Howe’s contingencies in the chest there, being 516l. 13s. 3d. and brought it home to dispose of.

walking through the churchyard
where people have been buried
in good clothes

I hear the owl again
and do not look


Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 30 January 1666.

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