by David Walshe
Washed up Woman,
bearing bejewelled jetsam.
Removed from her for ‘refuge,’
hauled to the hall.
Did Linaker’s lie,
cause this Castaways’ curse?
Was she pushed down the stairs?
Treasure/buried/still,
beneath
the
sundial?
At night,
a figure guards the drive,
“White Nancy,
White Nancy,
White Nancy!”
David Walshe from Southport, UK, is currently working on a small collection of poems inspired by his passion for local history. Previous work has been published by Black Bough Poetry, The Broken Spine, The Adriatic Mag, and Victorian Dollhouse. On Twitter @DJWalshe.
