Tuesday, November 29, 2011

World War Two

Dear Mother,

I hope this letter finds you well. I hope you are enjoying Balmoral, and the children aren't troubling you. They are quite nice, but can get a bit naughty when bored. Dear me, we could never forget that poor little horse, the one that Edward almost chopped up - still hasn't grown back his tail .....

The air raids have started here Mother. It is so disheartening to hear those loud wails in the middle of the night. I do not know if our home protects us, or is a beacon for our enemies to hurt us .... such are the times .....

I would have loved to take some of the children from London to Balmoral, but we fear it will make our home up north, a big target. You must agree, it really isn't safe for all of you to be together, much as I would want it to be.

I am enclosing 75 sterling pounds, in this envelope. Keep it with you. I will, of course, make more provisions, but this has to reach you early, just in case. Either way, there will be someone to escort you to safety - those instructions have long being given - Charles must remain with you at all times ....

Though I would much rather the time never arises, if our condition in London becomes so grave, the children must split up according to my plan, written to you in the earlier letter.

I would much rather have written a long chatty cheerful letter to you and the children, but that is for tomorrow afternoon, before tea , I promise. Hence this shall remain a hastily scribbled note, before I go to address the people who work for us.

After that I must go and say goodbye to my other boys .... they set sail tomorrow at first light ....

It hurts me to know that I want to do so much more for our country , in these times, but beyond the invisible line of power, I can do only so little ....

But no matter what happens, I love you all very very much, with all my heart ...

Your loving Daughter,


I need to write in my blog so much,
every funny story, every naughty deed,
every hopeful wish and every poetic feed
But nowadays when I take up my pen to write,
nothing comes to mind, nothing bright

Have I grown old, I wonder
Have I stopped seeing the beauty
in what I need to believe in,
Have I stopped finding it beautiful,
every small thing, as it had first been

As I pause to wonder, if my
writing will ever come back,
as I pause to look at, what I
have scribbled over this writing pad

I saw what was familiar,
phrases and paragraphs,
rhythm and small verses,
showing beauty's epitaph

How wonderful it felt, to write
like how it had once been
I realised I grew up, but without
giving up any dreams

And that my dear friend,
is the beauty of life,
Inspiration and Solace,
comes to those who strive

A moment's look, a meaningful phrase,
a sweetened memory, and well deserving praise

These cherished feelings, come not cheap,
As you work through life and every deed,
comes the beauty you know of,
with a sudden leap