The Market Cross


Oh My! Read to the end.

Originally posted on Locksands Life:

My local town is, and has been for close on 45 years, Devizes in Wiltshire. When I drove into the Market Place the other day I was shocked by a structure I didn’t, at first, recognise. But then I was driving and concentrating on other traffic and pedestrians using the crossing.

I was able to park the car and get a photograph.


It proved to be the Market Cross under wraps. Presumably it is getting a bit of a spruce up.

Having lived in the area for 35 years I take these things for granted but I have found a photo I took of some classic cars around the Market Cross on a very wet day in May 2004.


You might notice there’s a metal plaque on the cross. That tells the tale of Ruth Pierce.

This extract is from A History Military and Municipal of the Ancient Borough of…

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Look Up

Looking up right from the ground

Just EyeBalls on the Dirt

Long Eyelashes blinking away the strife

Strife from Every Single Bit of Life

Life Worries that Keep us from Smiling

That is alright the family Worries will Never

Ever Fade away But We will Look around 

Just our eyes and then appears a mouth and a smile

We say a Prayer and all of this wicked earths evil

Just rolls in to the dirt

Suddenly we are free

Free to finally be you and me


If clowns could make you happy, shooting stars could grant a wish, would we ever frown, would we have a want?

If a flower never lost its petals, our birds always sang, would we still appreciate its beauty, would we hum along?

If we gave more hugs, spoke more kind words, would we see more confidence, would we have less crime?

If we could fix each others worry, end all strife, would we ever argue, would we love our life?

that Fox

that Fox,sneaky and sleek, look, he has left us a treat

that Fox, sly and neat, slinking through on nimble feet

that Fox, he peeks through our cracks, always seeking to erase his tracks

that Fox, it is his life, cursing us with a time of strife

ms. Crow, calling over our head, warning of his approaching dread

that Fox, he’s so cruel, he’s so mean, we won’t ever figure out his scheme

that Fox, how terrible to try, unravel, that path he did travel

that Fox, it be said, that he is dead, but…

say a prayer, mr. Fox, He’s always there.


Winter. She died this morning on her daily walk and went to her own little paradise.

With the scent of a bloom, the face of a flower, the warmth of the sun, the sounds of nature.

She was glitter and cold, beauty and grace. 

Laid to rest in spring, among the trees, under a soft bed of moss.

With the whisper of a memory, a brush of sweet color, gathered in the arms of her Mother Earth.

A Soul Wrapped in Her Angels Love

Guardian angel in check planting

 kisses through

sweet pecks.

Wings wrapped around

her soul.

Pain no longer taking

its toll.

Green soft feathers

of strength.

Cruel pain healed in

a wink.

Now, she’s

sending her prayers on

golden threads.

Spreading blessings upon 

our heads.