by Anne Clegg | Apr 1, 2009 | Poetry
Soldiers that march want their voice to be heard singing those songs where they know all the words, their mindless defiance hurled up to the sky, stops thoughts of the carnage, the bodies that lie heaped up in the towns and the villages passed on their battle-strewn...
by Anne Clegg | Apr 1, 2009 | Poetry
Here, piled carelessly in wooden, shadowed corners, I found the skins you shed – thick velvet, sliding silk, embroidered threads on twisted taffeta, fine cotton burnished to transparency – old garments, redolent with perfume, smoke and sweat, worn in lighter times...
by Anne Clegg | Apr 1, 2009 | Poetry
Make me a coat of blue, little Lisbeth, so I can away to the war – But if I do, I’ll not see you for many days, many years, more. Show me your wool, little Lisbeth, is it soft and warm as your hand? My wool is the finest you’ll find in Frome, but you want to follow...
by Anne Clegg | Mar 30, 2009 | Stories
I’ve done it, Ma. There, what d’you think of that?’ Alfie unscrewed his hand. On his palm lay a shiny new shilling. ‘Oh Alfie, you never ’ave,’ Mrs Duggens stopped in the middle of blacking the kitchen range and stared at the coin. ‘Tell me you got it somewhere else,...
