#Wordle 422 #Poetry





I watched as my seven-year-old daughter carefully pressed

the dirt around the small plant her grandfather had given her

She spent hours choosing the right spot in our back garden

Job done, she sat, turning something over in her hands

Calling her for a glass of orange, I asked what she had found

She opened her hand and there lay a tiny bone

That looked like a child’s finger

I remembered the stories my grandmother had told

My father said they were nothing but lies

No more than the evil imaginings of an evil old woman

I cannot deny my grandmother often went into a daze

I had no desire to collude against the truth

To find the stories were more than smoke and mirrors

That a child had been buried where my daughter had been digging.

It would take a fair bit of grift to saw my way through the roots

Of the large oak tree that stood where my daughter had knelt

My husband agreed to help, rather than look foolish

Taking the bone to the police station

It turned out the bones we found belonged to my family

Which made me wonder about the other stories’ gran told

Turns out she wasn’t as daft as they would have me believe.

If she were here now, she would say she held the trump card

I told you that one day the bones would return…


#Wordle 418 #Poetry


Lies big or small impact our lives

Often leaving scars

Like water, they run deep

Our ignorance has polluted the ocean

Ruined the climate

No one can number greed in a crisis

Like fires escalating

Does it signal the end?



#Wordle 411… #Poetry





It’s 2.02 pm.

I am driving past St. Bonneville

My home, my place of work

The gravestones shimmer under moonlight

Like broken teeth.

An illuminated grimace.

I felt my heart give an extra beat

An uncomfortable feeling of being watched.

I pulled the car into the rectory

Gravel spitting

I would need to change my clothes

Check the font for water before morning.

I heard the broken hall clock chime at 3pm

Making the night feel decidedly unholy

If it weren’t for the beat of my heart

The silence would whistle in my ear

The way your blood does late at night

on your pillow, pulsing, a reminder of life.

About to turn in, I hear the soft moan

A groan of someone in pain.

There is no sign of an intruder

I check outside among the gravestones

The air was still, not a leaf stirred

As if someone held me by my shirt tail

I stood staring, not expecting to find my name

written there among those broken teeth.

I made my way back inside

Ready to wash and lie down.

Looking into the bathroom mirror

With no reflection looking back

I realise I am the intruder…

Anita Signature

#The Sunday Whirl ~ #Wordle 407

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Is it possible to be born without a soul?

To walk through life backwards

Vulnerable to the talk of careless lips

Whispers like a constant mantra

She will amount to nothing

To struggle with the stories told about her family

Bad seeds, the lot of them.

Life had been messy

Fuelled by the downward thoughts of others

With no exit in sight

Lisa’s life spiralled deeper into the mire

The road ahead paved with dark shadows

Whispering, this way.

Lisa’s damaged mind had no positive thought to lean on

No shoulder to lay her tears

No one to help her find new courage

A dark blue pebble picked from the kerb

Kicked a memory back to mind

Of old magic, healing waters at Glastonbury

Her mother had spoken of before leaving her alone

Lisa returned home with the pebble in her pocket

A seed, hope like a flower growing in her mind…


The Sunday Whirl ~ Wordle 406




Street Light

Old yellow streetlamps shine

Children play in sunlight’s glow

The noose that hung their life away

Now enters into play

They take their turn to swing

From lamplights shine

Their laughter falls on cold deaf ground

To late they learn of love

The crown of life made to swim through time eternal

A sign will tell of their return

Their noise and laughter will ring once more

No hand nor voice to scoot away

The weekend calls to County Fair…



#The Sunday Whirl ~ #Wordle 405


The white widow follows her prey to the end of Chapel Street

where he slips into the shadows of an ancient church

He knows she will be there on the night of the full moon

Shadowy dark stones, names faded

Fingers reaching through the earth pointing towards heaven

Beseeching, praying in their own way that she would come

Fallen leaves swirl like tiny dancers with one last leap of joy

before blanketing those who lie below

The chill wind drops, do they now lie in comfort?

The white widow comes to collect the dreams that linger

She will free them to live again

The world is teeming with unused energy

we have long forgotten how to make use of

Waiting in the shadows, his legs ache

He is forced to kneel, to wait, to watch

There is no sudden beam of light, no sign she could

do the things whispered about her

She moves slowly through the dark headstones

He hears her voice, like water on glass

The sweet sound of distant bells

She knows he waits in the shadows

He will stand witness to the freeing of energy

of those stuck beneath the ground where old bones rattle

 in anticipation, a silent cheer for what is to come

He feels the charge in the air,

A strange stirring, pricking against his skin

The need to drive his legs forward urgent now

The blanket of leaves rustle stirred by unseen forces

Tiny lights, stars, make their way through the earth

Growing larger until he is looking at rolls of film

Each dream played out in vivid colour

That private part of those who died

Their dreams free, their bones lie silent now

The white widow turns to where he hides in the shadows

Bows her head before moving on her way

He now has a story to tell of how the air shimmered

with lives lived while sleeping

Who will believe such fantasy…?


#The Sunday Whirl ~ #Wordle 403


Image by Leonard Bentley

Old London

The name’s Sparrow and this is my story.

Born on the wrong side of the tracks, the dark alley down by the Bull and Rag is home to many like me. Life don’t hold out no gold permit for the likes of us.

Unwanted, we live in the shadows. The fog of London turns us invisible, helping us to find food and old clothing. Anything we can find to keep us warm in winter. Twelve years now, I have seen many, much younger. Not all survive. When one goes, we shift the body under the street lights, where for once in their lives they will be seen. When we hear the siren, we know they have been taken away to be buried, a permanent home.

A plain wooden cross with no name, he’s a number. Someone should have loved him. One of these days, I will tear down this invisible barrier, the blocks that stand in my way. I will walk the streets of London in style. Men will doff their hats; ladies in their Sunday best will smile as I pass by. The name’s Sparrow, I am part of this world, I will be seen…


#Wordle 402 #Poetry



The River

It was the view from the window

That made me fly from the city to settle here.

I could float here all day

let my small boat drift off where it will

I hear the river sigh, sing a song long remembered

A declaration of love

I am here when you need me

I sense the peace afforded, the charm of letting go

Crows line the treetops

I am reminded that the river also brings death to those

Who don’t respect its ways

When the season is right, it will push back on itself

The tidal bore, a strange sight

A wall of blue water running backwards

As if it is collecting something forgotten

As I glide through the river shallows

I am reminded of where we came from

We are the light that glows above

Holding all together as brothers

We are fallen diamonds

We are stardust...



#The Sunday Whirl ~ #Wordle 400



Sacred Site

His newborn wings formed by ancient light

Lift him high above England green and pleasant land

Yet bittersweet the sight below

Broken monuments where stained glass no longer glows

No limit to pilgrim’s footfall

Still, they come to climb the ridge where the tower stands

Soothe worn out feet in water that ever flows

Quench their thirst from the White Spring spray

Where no salt lies within

Joseph’s blossom tree has stood the test of time

Offers shade, rest awhile

Hear the whispered songs of old

Feel the beat of ancient wings where power still remains…


The Sunday Whirl ~ Wordle 399



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Look not upon deaths cruel face

Nor decay where worms dwell

Move on to new dimensions

Let your own words write your destiny

Sit a while beneath the shade of a maple tree

Watch the sun bleed through blood- red leaves

The shadows drawn by your feet

See the patterns, strange worlds forming

Stories to be written by silent shadows voice

Let life wash over you, remove the boot that holds you

where you no longer need to be

Let bird’s song in, hear the music of our feathered friends

Let the feral world you dislike, fade from memory

Find a broken mansion, walls crumbled, forgotten

Build it new; bring love back to where it once lived

Let in the cat that lives outside

Companionship, a friend to whisper your secrets to

Watch as his black fur gently rises in sleep

On that old stool, you rescued now in front of the fire

Sit back; stir that cube of sugar in your coffee cup

Let not thoughts bait old memories return

Your written words paint life in rainbow colours

One thing left to do, live it…