The 2.40… #Poetry



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My father, a staunch academic that never flaps.

At breakfast, I met a stranger at the table

He spoke at a speed I had never heard before

I could see a hint of panic in his eyes.

He didn’t ask, so much as forbid me

to take the 2.40 train from Paddington.

Asking why his voice became calmer

I don’t know if you have heard this story

Or remember it from the newspapers

One year ago, a young man just turned eighteen

died on that train in the third carriage

It’s said he may return on the anniversary of his death

To sit in the same seat for three weeks

In the hope of finding the part of self

we all leave behind on being born.

He waits for the other half, the missing piece

To sit on the seat opposite the door.

When the right person takes that seat

He becomes whole, having entered the sitter.

There are many tales of what takes place next

You have just turned eighteen, I am asking you please,

Take the earlier train to your next job?

Seeing how much this meant to my father

I agreed, and kissing his cheek, I left for work

I felt a little odd approaching the station

Standing close to the edge of the platform

I waited that afternoon for the 2.40.

I remember asking my father why I couldn’t just

Take my journey in the second car

Father said it was best to avoid the 2.40 all together

As curiosity gets the best of some people.

I could hear the train approaching

I stood where the third car would stop

I could see a grey outline of someone sitting

in the seat Father mentioned

There were no discernible features to this mass

Shaking my head, thinking my father’s story

Must have gotten into my mind

I felt a connection, a longing, something remembered

I remembered my father saying that a soul mate

Was not someone you search for in life

It’s the missing part of self.

I knew what this meant, for I had often felt

Lost lonely unsure even when falling

in love with a boy from College

A few minutes of happiness that doesn’t last

Leaving me with the feeling of being unwhole.

Now that I have felt that missing part

I would break my word

I will sit in that seat tomorrow at 2.40

Let the missing part enter

See what life will bring…

©anitadawes 2020

Circle… #Poetry


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Old stories whispered on wet afternoons

Do they contain a kernel of truth?

Are the stones more than man has made?

Late at night when the moon is full

Energy pulled from the stones

Blue flickering light

Can the fate of Merlin be seen?

Dancing in the circle?

I see mischief by magic made…

©anitadawes 2020

This week on Streets Ahead Book Promotion Club…The Curse of Time by M J Mallon #Mystery @Marjorie_Mallon

This week, over on MEWe, The Streets Ahead Book Promotion Club is focussing on M J Mallon’s wonderful story, The Curse of Time.

Now on our reading list, and should be on yours too?


A unique, imaginative mystery full of crystal magic-wielding, and dark elements.

Fifteen-year-old Amelina Scott lives in Cambridge with her dysfunctional family, a mysterious black cat, and an unusual girl Esme who’s imprisoned within the mirrors located in her house. When an unexpected message arrives inviting Amelina to visit the Crystal Cottage, she sets off on a forbidden pathway where she encounters Ryder, a charismatic, but perplexing stranger. With the help of a magical paint set, and some crystal wizard stones she discovers the truth about a shocking curse that has destroyed her family’s happiness. A magical YA/paranormal fantasy with dark elements set in Cambridge, England.

#curse #time #crystals #shadows #self-harm #mentalhealth

Goodreads Review quotes:

“Amelina is a teenage girl whose world has been turned upside down by a curse within a world where magic is hidden and most don’t seem to know of its existence. In fact, it seems she’s a descendant of a line of magic-wielding enchanters who have a special relationship with crystals. But with this curse, her father is time-ravaged, a girl is trapped in her mirror, and her family is falling apart. There are a lot of unanswered questions come the end of the book, so be on the lookout for more in the series. There are mentions of delicate issues such as cutting and anorexia, both handled with care, and a séance, but I’d recommend this book for older teens and people who love magical stories that involve power within crystals, curses, and unexplainable happenings.”

“The Curse Of Time by M.J. Mallon is an intricate fantasy novel with unique supernatural and magical elements which serves as a highly entertaining read. I had a great time reading this novel and exploring the magical world of Amelina full of magic crystals and enchanted mirrors.”

“This novel would be great for teenagers, or young adults and it follows the magical story of teenager Amelina as she steps into a world of crystals, magic and wonderment. There are some likeable and not so likeable characters and both are really well written. The book weaves a story of the main character learning new skills and you see her personal growth throughout the story. Nothing is what is seems and you want to find out how Amelina will use her enchanted gifts and learn who she can trust. A book packed full of intrigue, believable characters and poetic verse.”

“This is a brilliant book for young adults interested in magic, supernatural, paranormal, fantasy and myth. I found it highly readable and the author’s imagination is phenomenal, as is the fluency of her language and the dazzling way she describes the curious events and characters in her story. I loved the idea of Esme, the girl trapped in the mirror.”

“Beautifully written and poetic fantasy novel that perfectly sustains mystery and drama throughout the pages. The characters are very vivid and the world is rich in detail and atmosphere. Marjorie is excellent at painting imaginative and believable scenes with words and magic. A fantastic debut! Looking forward to her next book.”

“The overall world-building creates a wonderful, spiritual atmosphere.
There’s a bit of poetry at the start of every chapter, a nice touch which leads us into the action.
The story bravely tackles issues of mental health and self-harm, but in such a sensitive way that it can only help improve understanding.”

“This delightful book will appeal to teens and young adults who love stories filled with magical crystals, dark family curses, and mysteries waiting to be solved around every corner. Each chapter leads you on a journey of discovery where Amelina earns the right to use three wizard stones to reset the balance of time and finally break the curse that holds her family hostage. A captivating tale!” – Colleen M. Chesebro (Editor)

Is it a Plane?



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I had awoken before dawn again and stood at my window, searching the velvety night sky for the first signs of dawn. That barely perceptible lightening of the blackness that seems to happen almost without warning.

I found myself staring at a star, defiant in its lingering and as I watched, it seemed to be moving. My eyes must still be clinging to sleep for it couldn’t possibly be moving.

But it was.

So very slowly, it crept across the sky. I strained to see if it could be a plane but could see no flashing lights. As I watched, mesmerised, it seemed to grow bigger, which meant it was getting closer to me. I stared at the star, desperate to see what it could possibly be.

When the flashing lights appeared, I knew it must be a plane, or maybe a helicopter. But wait a minute. I counted several flashing lights all in a row and as far as I knew, planes didn’t.

Fascinated, I kept watching. The sky was beginning to lighten, revealing the outline of the craft. It did look like a plane now, but not one I recognised and far too small for a commercial airline. It glided slowly past my window, all the lights twinkling like a Christmas tree until I couldn’t see it anymore…


My Mind… #Poetry


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My world is made of breadcrumbs

Only there is no Hansel and Gretel in this story

I know I’m not living in a fairy tale

Everything I touch crumbles, harmony is lost

My secret thoughts turn darker

At times my spoken word is edged with barb wire

I lose friends, family with my acid tongue

I feel as if I have fallen into a fog

Laced with hex

It follows me, breaking every step I take

There is no one to tell this sorry tale to

They wouldn’t understand

Besides, what could they do

I must find my own way out of the labyrinth

Before I lose the only thing left to me

My mind…


#Writephoto ~ Web #Poetry

Thursday photo prompt: Web #writephoto



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Inside the broken castle walls

An ancient suit of armour stands empty

Her silken thread weaving, time passing

Long lost fairy tales hidden beneath her touch

Great battles lose their meaning

When our lack of immortality

Can clearly be seen

By a tiny arachnid, doing what she does best

Laying a blanket of silk across all she sees

With no heed to what lies beneath

She cares not for time passing

Break her web, find a treasure waiting.




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Image by JayeMarie

Anita told me this morning that Sue’s #writephoto image this week will be a bunch of trees.

She had just finished painting one of her flower frogs in copper, when I showed her the picture. She promptly went to lie down in a dark room as she says she cannot take much more of these universal coincidences. Trees and the word copper?

I wasn’t going to do anything with it, but I had the impulse to put it out there.

This kind of thing happens to her so often, she feels she should be able to do something useful with it.

Any ideas?


Who was she?




Image by Jaye Marie


Her eyes black beads, her face skeletal

Her bones lay in a crescent, the earth carefully swept aside.

The copper of a turning leaf lay beside her hand.

Dried berries, red once, now more like

the shrivelled eyes of a dead badger.

A thread of red cotton bound her wrists.

Who is she and how long has she been there?

Why has someone unearthed her?

Questions I cannot answer.

There was no sign of anyone

No markers to say this was an archaeological site.

There was no real reason for me to believe

that the bones were female.

the broken string of blue glass beads around her neck

gave me the she, rather than the he.

The church had stood there from the 1600’s

the graveyard, judging from the headstones longer.

How old were the uncovered bones?

I could not tell, not versed in the art of bone reading

I needed to find someone, let them know of my find.

Looking at my watch, it was late

The church doors locked, not yet fully dark.

I looked for somewhere the vicar might live.

Walking the length of the graveyard to the front gate

Across the road, one house had its lights on

Holding my breath, I knocked. I had found the vicar.

Asking me in, his lady wife made tea with two biscuits on the saucer

my clumsy hands held the delicate china like the claws of an eagle

I had no desire to drop it, to look like a fool.

Bad enough, the questions I was about to ask

The vicar’s answers glued my body to the chair

A hundred years ago, Margaret Lee was stoned to death

The night of the crescent moon on Michaelmas eve

For carrying another man’s child.

My thoughts became jumbled with the vicar’s words

The items you mention were there to keep her earthbound

For the past five years we uncover the grave

To let her remember how it felt to be free

We believe her punishment didn’t fit the crime

Our hope is, she might be released from her bondage

We wait for a sign.

I had forgotten it was Christmas eve, before leaving,

I suggested they should take the red cotton from her wrists

Remove the remaining items, including the broken blue beads

That once may have adorned her neck.

The vicar looked at me in surprise, his wife almost dropped the cup,

standing as if she had been shot from the chair.

God in heaven, why haven’t we thought of that?

It must be done, husband. It may stop the crying

that haunts us each year on this blessed day.

I left the vicarage

thinking it was no blessed day for Margaret Lee…


Mirrors… #Poetry




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Steamy mirrors

Dead fingers have written

Your time is coming

I wiped it away, my hand

Touching the space

Where death had written

My hand felt strange

Like touching an electric wire

Shaking my hand did no good

It began to itch

Running it under cold water didn’t help

The feeling grew along the length of my arm

The doctor could find no reason for it

The feeling lasted for two days

I found a site online

Under mystic messages

I read that I had touched my own death

I thought no more of it

For as we know, death waits for each of us

At 23 I felt I had time to do what I wanted

I was wrong, I did not reach my next birthday

now I write on steamy mirrors…