Poets’ Corner After Dark

Setting: Westminster Abbey’s South Transept at midnight. The moonlight filters through stained glass windows. The statues and busts of Poets’ Corner begin to stir, their voices echoing through the hallowed halls.

(A loud creak. Geoffrey Chaucer, a bronze statue, stretches and yawns, his metal joints groaning.)

Chaucer: By the great quill of destiny, what hour be this? Midnight? Time flies when one is petrified.

(Nearby, William Shakespeare, carved in marble, rubs his forehead dramatically.)

Shakespeare: To wake or not to wake—alas, the question answers itself! I feel a cramp in my heroic couplets.

(Charles Dickens, his bust high on a pedestal, speaks with a grumble.)

Dickens: If anyone thinks I’ll write another serial after this, they’re gravely mistaken. I’ve spent decades staring at pigeons. It’s intolerable!

(Jane Austen’s stone figure comes to life.)

Austen: And yet, men will complain, even when dead. Can we focus? Why are we waking up tonight?

Chaucer: Methinks the moon shines brighter on this eve. ’Tis a summons from the Muses! Or possibly the Abbey Wi-Fi acting up again.

(Lord Byron saunters in dramatically, wearing his perpetual stone smirk.)

Byron: (mockingly) Ah, the gang’s all here. Chaucer, the dusty relic; Shakespeare, the eternal show-off; and Dickens, the poster boy for misery. Truly, a cavalcade of brilliance.

Dickens: Oh, look, it’s Byron, the original influencer. What’s the matter? No one liked your latest tragic sonnet?

Byron: I don’t need “likes,” Charles. My despair is timeless. Unlike your serialised sob stories.

(John Keats and Percy Bysshe Shelley drift in, looking lost.)

Keats: (nervously) Um, hello. Is this… the afterlife’s book club?

Shelley: Keats, I told you, stop asking. Byron’s not in charge—he just acts like it.

(Jane Austen steps forward, brushing dust off her stone gown.)

Austen: We’re supposed to be inspiring the living, not squabbling like characters in a poorly written farce.

Shakespeare: (indignant) Poorly written? Madam, I invented farce! And tragedy, for that matter.

Austen: Yes, we’ve noticed. We all have to hear about it nightly.

(A faint humming noise grows. The Abbey’s speakers accidentally start playing a modern audiobook. The poets recoil in horror as an AI voice reads a romance novel.)

Audiobook Narrator: “He gazed into her eyes, his chiselled jaw trembling with passion…”

(Byron claps his hands over his ears.)

Byron: What fresh hell is this?

Austen: Modern romance. Quite popular, actually.

Shakespeare: Chiselled jaws? Trembling passion? I’d sooner see my plays rewritten as musicals!

(Chaucer waves his arms to get attention.)

Chaucer: Quiet, all! Methinks we must intervene. The living have clearly lost their literary way.

Dickens: Yes! Let us haunt the publishers until they restore proper storytelling. No more sparkling vampires or billionaire love triangles!

Austen: Or, we could just give them… guidance. Perhaps they’re not all lost causes.

Byron: (smirking) Speak for yourself. I’d rather haunt Instagram.

(As the poets argue, a security guard enters, holding a torch. The beam of light freezes everyone mid-motion. For a moment, they look like statues again. The guard scratches his head.)

Guard: (muttering) Blimey, I need to cut back on the night shifts. Thought I saw Shakespeare wink at me.

(The guard leaves, muttering about getting coffee. As soon as the door shuts, the poets burst into laughter.)

Shakespeare: Winking? A tragedy I didn’t invent earlier!

Austen: Let’s focus. If we’re going to inspire, we need to reach the world. But how?

(A moment of silence. Then Chaucer speaks up, grinning.)

Chaucer: TikTok?

(The others groan in unison.)

(The poets work together, scribbling with imaginary quills and creating ethereal manuscripts that float in the air. Byron spends most of his time striking poses.)

Austen: (reading) “We, the spirits of Poets’ Corner, call upon you, dear writers, to elevate your craft! Write with wit, depth, and meaning!”

Dickens: And no clichés! If I see one more “chosen one” narrative, I shall weep.

Shelley: (excitedly) Let’s send it out on the wind! A ghostly manuscript carried by the night air.

Byron: Or… we could just leave it in the gift shop.

(They pause. Byron shrugs. The poets reluctantly agree.)

(As dawn approaches, they resume their statuesque forms, ready to inspire from their silent vigil once more.)

Epilogue: The Gift Shop

(The next day, a tourist picks up the mysterious manuscript and chuckles.)

Tourist: “A Declaration from the Poets of Westminster Abbey?” Must be some clever marketing.

(The tourist pockets it away. Meanwhile, in Poets’ Corner, Shakespeare’s statue winks.)