Sitting in my arm chair, staring off to no where
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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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,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.
Guardian angel in check planting
Wings wrapped around
Pain no longer taking
Green soft feathers
Cruel pain healed in
sending her prayers on
Spreading blessings upon