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