Coded Message

A coded message never read,
Attached to pigeon, long since dead,
Which rested in its weary flight,
Revealed at last, exposed to light,
A folded scrap, a paper shred.

The secret words could not be said,
Their import far too great, instead
A cypher expert had to write,
The coded message.

Top secret words in code embed,
And seal them in a capsule red,
Then send them flying through the night.
With Bletchley Park within its sight,
Fate took a hand and left unread
     The coded message.

© Marilyn Brindley


Quest to crack secrets of lost D-Day pigeon


Marilyn is a retired primary school head teacher, who now has the time to indulge in the writing and reading the works of other creative individuals. She blogs at http://hangingonmyword.blogspot.com

These Bones

These bones have mouldered many years,
laid to rest with none to mourn,
nor mark my time on earth,
save the tolling of the Greyfriars bell,
and the holy brothers’ funeral dirge.

I lost my life on Bosworth field,
mired in mud and treason.
A sword cleaved my crown,
an arrow pierced my misshaped spine,
and sent me, grim-visaged, to the next world.

And now this garden yields a harvest rich,
these bones, cheated of feature,
are hung up for monument.
The ground is rudely stamped,
and there are merry meetings.

I foresee the winter of their discontent,
and wranglings twixt the learned few,
who wish to prove a villain of these bones,
but first must ascertain that this was
Richard’s tomb indeed.

Yet I remain, unfinished, scarce half made-up,
brought before my time
into this breathing world.
How long before these bones
will know their rest?

© Marilyn Brindley

Richard III dig: 'Strong evidence' bones are lost king

Marilyn is a retired primary school head teacher, who now has the time to indulge in the writing she's always wanted to do and read the works of other creative individuals.

The Right Train

(With apologies to W.H. Auden’s ‘The Night Train’)

These are the passengers crossing the border,
Waiting to check that all is in order,
Passports from the rich, passports from the poor,
They queue round the corner and out of the door.
It’s a hell of a task, a mountain to climb:
Calling them forward one a time.
Then here comes one who’s somewhat bolder
To see for herself what Brodie told her,
Snorting sniffily as she passes,
The grumbling miles of weary masses,
They all turn their heads as she approaches,
And herds them into the waiting coaches.
It’s a pilot scheme and it’s set on course;
To bolster the local labour force
Whilst shortening the queues at the lowest cost,
For the minimum wage, all paperwork lost.

Theresa smiles. Her work is done.
Down towards Parliament she descends
Towards politicians at Question Time,
Towards journalists and assembled media
Waiting to hear her proclamation.
The United Kingdom waits for her:
Huddled round TV screens, computers, iPhones
Men long for news.

She’s made up her mind to close her ears,
To her loyal employee who’s served 40 years.
Denies all knowledge of collusion.
No, this is his own final solution.
He takes the hint with resignation,
Then states his case to the waiting nation.
But Theresa’s reputation’s intact,
And Brodies’s statement can’t detract,
From her kitten heels and perfect bob,
Come what May; He’ll lose his job.

And he will wake soon and long for letters,
And will not hear the postman’s knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?

© Marilyn Brindley

Ex-borders chief Brodie Clark: I didn't go rogue
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Marilyn is a retired primary school head teacher, who now has the time to indulge in the writing she's always wanted to do and read the works of other creative individuals.

Until That Moment

A moment’s inattention was all it took.
The mother, engaged in conversation,
at the market stall.

The small child, seeing the world beyond
through the open door,
ventured out on still-ungainly legs,
smiling and trusting.

Until that moment she knew only love;
her every need met.
Now, she wandered from safety, and became
just another obstacle on a busy road.

A moment’s inattention was all it took.
The driver, engaged in conversation,
on his mobile phone.

The small child, seeing the heavy truck
on the market street,
toddled forward with still-innocent trust,
laughing and pointing.

Until that moment she knew only happiness;
her every question answered.
Now, she lay crushed and broken, and became
just another pile of rubbish on a busy road.

A moment’s attention was all that was needed.
People engaged in conversation,
as they looked away.

The small child smashed by a second truck
the motorcyclist
circled round the bloody mess,
uncaring and unfeeling.

Until that moment they had emotions;
their every human instinct was to care.
Now they witnessed callous indifference and became
just casual observers on a street of shame.

A moment’s attention was all that was needed.
A rubbish collector, diverted from her task,
tried to make sense of what she saw.

Until this moment she was a shadow;
her every movement unnoticed.
Now, she moved the damaged child from harm’s way and became
a ray of hope in a shameful world.

© Marilyn Brindley

Chinese toddler run over twice after being left on street
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Marilyn is a retired primary school head teacher, who now has the time to indulge in the writing she's always wanted to do and read the works of other creative individuals.