1485

Cold and dense was the English morn

I walked silently to help with the corn

I passed a small alley, a place where I’d heard

Lived an old cousin of Richard the Third

The street there was labeled Feeblestane

Where wandered the old and slightly insane

I took a turn to the left and inquired

If the woman was there, or had she expired

I was led by a girl, young but mature

To the end of the street that was dark and obscure

And though I was limited in my sight

I saw something shift, though very slight

Bent and gray sat the woman of old

Bones very stiff from the English cold

Hunger had stirred her mind to a fog

She fancies great dishes, including her dog

She had many stories of the days of old

When she went to the tower, or so I was told

Her words were hard to believe, I admit

The long, endless years had taken her wit

But something she said to me seemed to be real

The truth in her eyes began to reveal

A hidden past that had caused her much pain

And many lost hopes she could never regain

She told me a story of a man she did know

In 1483…A long time ago

It was when this woman was very young

Her age was all of twenty-one,

she speaks of her aunt’s son

Who was blamed for two murders

yet he took no part

But Richard was blamed

from the very start

“I was in the tower, you see,

Hid from the light, they couldn’t see me

I know the truth,” she exclaimed with pride,

“I know by whose hands the little ones died!

“They stole into darkness and smothered them there

Then buried them under the white tower stair

I had been visiting another inmate

When I heard some men approaching the gate

“The deed came alive before my eyes

As I listened to innocent, muffled cries

I knew the intent, a sinister frame

To kill the young princes and let Richard be blamed

“I hated the Tudor’s, despised their greed

And It stilled my heart to witness the deed

Knowing by their hand the action was wrought

I hid until morning, afraid I’d be caught.”

I listened on to such dismal words.

I had heard the story of Richard the Third

But I had been told that he was in power

Of the deaths of the princes in the tower

Her pitiful state stirred my soul

And she spoke once again

her voice very low

“The truth is now given unto you

The date is fifteen hundred and sixty-two

“It’s nigh on to seventy-seven years

And still to this day I have many fears

I am loathe to tell it lest I be stoned

They call me old woman, say I’m crazed to the bone.”

Her voice slowly faded and her eyes looked away

She drifted to sleep and I left her that way

The woman was killed, days after confessing

There was seen in the alley a man of rich dressing

Who ran away when the screams began

A bloody jeweled dagger slipped from his hand.

Around her neck, though nobody cared

Was a gift from dear Richard before death he had spared

When by Henry Tudor he was hideously killed

At the bloody battle of Bosworth’s Field

I passed by once again while on my way

Her body still there exposed to decay

But what could I do? I could meet the same fate

So I kept on walking, approaching the gate

That took me to work in a distant field

Toiling long hours to bring a good yield.

Cold and dense was the English morn

I worked silently in a field of corn

                                 ©Kimberly Jo Smith