BETWEEN TWO ENTERIES

 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 history keeps,
In deeds and lands and temper, in promises it keeps.
But lives that passed beside him may not be written true—
For not all threads are carried when history passes through.

So she remains unspoken, yet not entirely gone,
A life between two entries where doubt and fact belong.
And Bosworth holds that silence as gently as it can—
For what is left uncertain still shapes the truth of man.