When Shadows Fade…



Image by Pixabay.com


When morning shadows fade, I shrink back into darkness

Forgotten until daylight when I can once again search

For the one who stole my lifeforce while I was dreaming me.

Yet, he has no face, not fully formed

I must be quick before he takes more from the shadows

To become the one I am meant to be, leaving me in darkness

Never to step into the light to find my own form

To live outside my own form, my own shadow

The faceless one will not give back with ease

The fight will be fierce, I must protect the little I have

I am forced to hide in darker shadows, wait to find help there

from those who wait to live outside.

Not an easy thing to ask, each life force is a precious jewel

To find one that is jaded is my hope

One who has lost desire for the outside.

To borrow from this being is dangerous,

as I might forget my own desire

A risk I must take if I am to live outside my shadow

For there is one there I dearly wish to beside

I have watched her from the shadows

Planned our wedding, seen the birth of our children

I have yet to make it so,

to breathe the same air, I must find the jaded one

plead my case, steal his life force if I must

She is worth the evil I would carry to the outside

A sin on my new-born soul.

It can carry many more, not that I intend to

I will escape the evil voice that haunts my shadow life

Lay down all previous sin as I take form from the jaded one

As I do so, he will fade into eternity

There he will live again, in a better form of self

There is no way back, still, I will send him

His sins may be as fleas on a dog’s back, too many to count

I care not, my need is greater

I see him now, crouched in the darkness, a lone wolf

Waiting his own demise

I am here to help him on his way, I will ask first,

if his answer is unfavourable, I will steal from him

Gather more from those who hide with him

They have given up, I shall not

 I will find what was stolen from me

I will live again, outside my shadow…


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…