Darling Mary

In a pocket of her coat
Mary Whitcombe kept a poppet
made of clay she’d dug
from the dark bank
of the river
where it splashed down
cold as ice
from the high fields
and decorated
with a lock of hair
from her mother
and clothed
in a scrap if nightdress.
Mary held the doll
and told it her secrets
and punished it
when she felt slighted.

Anne Whitcombe died
for no good reason
the doctors could see.
They found nothing
but for a bruise
like a giant thumb.