Alisonpoetry

I Was Written Once I was not born in ink, as you would understand, No certificate to prove me, no seal, no steady hand. Only water, cool and brief, in Cadeby, Leicestershire, England, A name spoken softly, then loosed across the land. They called me Anna—once— And thought it would remain, But names can fade like winter breath Against a windowpane. My brother’s path was certain, His place the world would know, While I moved through the chambers Where quieter lives must go. In Bosworth Hall I learned the sound of doors, Of footsteps kept from echo, of voices kept indoors. Not all who live in houses are meant to leave a trace— Some pass like shifting candlelight that never marks a place. Sir Wolstan Dixie 4th Baronet was not a man of silence, Nor one the world forgot, But I was not his history— Or else I was, and was not. I remember little clearly— The cold, perhaps, the day, When bells were rung above me And time was closed away. At St Peter’s Church, Market Bosw...

  In Bosworth Hall the years lie folded deep, In timber, stone, and silence where older stories sleep. Not all are told in fullness, not all are meant to stay— Some fade between the margins and quietly slip away. A name once inked in passing, then never written twice, No portrait in the gallery, no place in cold device. Just one small line in winter, when bells were softly rung, And all that could be certain was how briefly she’d been young. At St Peter’s Church, Market Bosworth the record still remains, A date, an age, a surname—no triumphs, no refrains. The earth received her gently, as it has done for all, Whether named in grandest house or none remembered at all. And somewhere near in Cadeby, Leicestershire, England, A child was once made known, With water, word, and witness—yet never fully shown. No line connects the moments, no hand has drawn it clear, But time and place together still quietly draw her near. Sir Wolstan Dixie 4th Baronet left marks that hi...

  The Grey Daughter of Bosworth At Bosworth Hall the corridors breathe at night, Where candle-flame once trembled and never held its light. The walls keep what was whispered, the floors recall her tread— A daughter never written, though long among the dead. They say she walked in secret where the iron teeth were laid, Where love was not permitted and quiet vows were made. A step too far in shadow, a cry no one would claim— And history closed its ledger before it wrote her name. In Cadeby, Leicestershire, England the water touched her brow, A child of rank and silence, forgotten even now. No portrait hangs to hold her, no record speaks her part— Only a fading echo in Bosworth’s guarded heart. Sir Wolstan Dixie 4th Baronet kept his lands in order, With iron will and temper no servant dared to border. But stone cannot contain what blood and grief allow— And something walks those chambers that will not be stilled now. At St Peter’s Church, Market Bosworth beneath the ...

  At Bosworth Hall where shadows lean on stone, And cedar trees remember more than they have shown, There walks a name half-spoken, lost between the years— A whisper in the records, a trace in ink and tears. They wrote her once— Anna —then the line went cold, No story neatly finished, no life completely told. Just a date in winter, when the ground was hard and still, And a bell that marked her passing by the church upon the hill. At St Peter’s Church, Market Bosworth she was laid to rest, they say, Nineteen years accounted, then quietly put away. No grand inscription followed, no lineage carved in stone, Just a place among the silent, where the nameless are not alone. Yet near at Cadeby, Leicestershire, England, a child was once received, With water, name, and promise—quietly believed. A daughter of a household that history half recalls, Where pride was worn like armour in the echoing halls. Sir Wolstan Dixie 4th Baronet ruled those lands with fire, A man of tem...

  At Bosworth Hall where shadows lie, And old trees watch the years go by, A story lingers, soft and low, Of Anne Dixie long ago. A name once written in parish stone, In St Peter’s Church, Market Bosworth alone, A young life ended, brief and still, As records note, as records will. The Dixie line of house and land, Bound to history, firm and grand, Within the walls of hall and gate, Where memory and myth debate. They say she loved where secrets grew, In quiet paths where none but few Would dare to walk or dare to stay, Beyond the rules of light of day. And some tell tales, in whispered tone, Of tragedy not fully known, Of sorrow deep within the hall, Of unseen footsteps down the wall. But what is truth and what is told, Through centuries of turning old? A grave remains, the name is there, Beyond that rests the weight of care. Now through the grounds at evening’s close, When winter wind around them blows, Some say a figure still may roam, Searching fo...

At Bosworth Hall where shadows cling, And winter winds through branches sing, A whispered tale still walks the air, Of Anne, the Grey Lady, wandering there. A Duke’s proud daughter, bound by name, Yet drawn to love she could not claim, A gardener’s touch, a secret flame, A hidden life, a dangerous game. Through silent paths and gardens deep, Where ancient trees their watch do keep, They met where no one else would tread, Where love grew wild, but fear was fed. For in the hall, her father’s rage Burned darker still with every age, A man of power, cold and grim, No mercy ever lived in him. One bitter day in winter’s breath, He set in motion silent death, A cruel device beneath the land, A hidden trap by careful hand. Unknowing, Anne walked out once more, To meet the one her heart beat for, With thoughts of vows and life ahead, And not the path to bloodshed. A sudden snap, a cry, a fall, Echoing through the ancient hall, The iron jaws had found their prey...

  Bosworth Hall, the Grey Lady, a moment in time, The spooks fall in this little rhyme. She was the daughter of the Duke. Anne was killed, it wasn’t a fluke. She loved the gardener, her father was not to know, They met in secret, in places not to go. But she knew her father was nasty and had a gun, Many times she heard his voice and had to run. The big church near the hall, Cottage gardens, trees big and tall. Years of love were about to stop, It was meant for the gardener, he would have had his lot. Winter’s day was the moment it was planned, He walked out of the kitchen with the trap in his hand. Anne was walking out again to meet the love of her life, She was thinking one day she would be his wife. She walked in the grounds of the hall — a fall, Became trapped in the mantrap, life would not be a ball. She managed to carry the trap, pouring with blood, Staff came to help, they did what they could. Very sadly, Anne passed away from her wounds, Still t...