There used to be a scaffold here.
Where blood has spilled the grass is greener.
Beheading was at dawn, a sword for noblemen
and axe for all the rest.
An ax is dull, a sword is sharp …
Only Anne was privileged enough
to be treated as a man.
They say she never cried, but bled she did.
Her greatest sin: she never had a son.
Her greatest legacy: Elizabeth.
The ravens know,
how close it was for England to succumb,
if daughters can’t be kings.
you died in honor of the king,
but afterwards your daughter honored you.
I know it’s not the Tower of London, but still the green lawn and the old walls reminded me of a tour we made. I don’t really know if I wrote a narrative poem or a story, but sometimes you just have to tell the story of Anne Boleyn in the simplest possible ways. The irony that her daughter became one of the greatest rulers of England should be remembered more than that of king Henry.
Friday Fictioneers is a community of bloggers who write stories to the same picture in 100 words every week. There is lot of talent here, and Rochelle keeps us on the edge of improving our writing skills every week.
August 30, 2017