BOSWORTH HALL

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 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 for a way back home.


A myth, a truth — the line is thin,
Where history ends and tales begin,
Yet Bosworth keeps what time has sewn,
Between the known and unknown.


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