THE GREY DAUGHTER OF BOSWORTH

 

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 winter ground,
They laid her down in silence without a second sound.
Nineteen years accounted—no more was ever said,
No truth, no tale, no comfort for the restless or the dead.

And still when night is deepest and Bosworth sleeps alone,
A pale form drifts between the walls of weathered stone.
Not rage, nor grief, nor vengeance—just something left undone,
A life that slipped the record… before it had begun.