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Set in 7th century Anglo-Saxon England, The Whispering Bell, is the story of a woman’s love, and of her fight for justice in a male dominated, heroic age. Wynflaed, orphaned by famine, is rescued and raised in a hall of plenty. She becomes a gifted needlewoman whose artistry is much prized, but the calm and security of her life is soon shattered… (Adult historical fiction).

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Poppy

A mardy arse is Poppy,
She’s all-ass roorin and playin up.
She can’t run nor climb nor kick a ball,
She just pretends and meks stuff up.

I wish she were like me moor,
And not so soft and girly.
I wish she’d av her hair cut,
And not all long and curly.

Me mam’s asked her to me birthday,
It’s because this time I’m ten.
I’m hopin’ that she waint come,
Cos lads are best bi us sen.

Ayup, she’s coming nah,
Wearing shorts and a frilly vest.
She looks or-reight in that,
When she scrubbed up in her best.

I hope she’s glad to see me,
She’ll see I’m gerring bigger.
Her hair is looking nicer,
And by eck she’s gorra figure.

I’m glad she’s not like me moor,
She’s quite nice all soft and girly.
I just hope that she still likes me,
And dunt go home too early.

It dunt matter if she cant feight,
And who needs to kick a ball.
Thiz moor to life than feighting,
And Poppy’s gorrit all.

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Laikin Abaht Dahn Rivelin [Playing in Rivelin Valley]
When thart laikin abaht near watter dahn rivs,
A reight joyful jump is what thee ‘eart gives.
Tha can paddle and scroam, even swim an all,
Some’ll swing on a roo-ap or feight for a ball.

Turn stoo-ans for bullies, catch frogs, mice and shrews,
Smoke aaht a wasp-nest, float frogs in thee shoes.
Thez them az catch rabbits and search forra fox,
Thiv orlass got sommat caged up in a box.

Thez them az lays dahn and snoozes in t’sun,
Tha can splash ’em wi’ watter – if tha can run.
Thez t’owd ‘ens wi’ dogs, and young women wi’ prams,
Blokes wi’ lasses on blankets wi’ wandering ‘ands.

It’s for us all is Rivelin, rich, poor, bad-n-good,
It were once t’secret playground of owd Robin Hood.
He still feights sheriff at Den Bank, Roscoe an’ t’Glen,
And  scroams dahn near  Mouse-oyl wi’ ‘is merry men.

Keep Rivs for all-ass, no more buildings or roo-ads.
Lerrit be natural fot fish, frogs and too-ads.
Gi’ thee eyes and thee heart a magical treat,
Stroll from t’post office to Malin weer waters-meet.

Thi reight tichy are wrens, Robins are bigger.
But thiv moor ‘eart and pluck in their diminutive figure.
Thi sing reight loud, a beautiful song.
It’s all trills n wobbles and just bubbles along.
Thi flit past thee eyes, like rusty red fairies,
As thi ‘unt in the bushes for insects and berries.

Thi build nests all o’er, like downy soft purses.
And lay eggs six or seven, which the little hen nurses.
The cock’s a bit naughty he’s a bit of a lad.
He has nests all o’er, with hens that he’s had.
He does it to mek sure that his genes live on.
He int faithful to his missus, like the regal white swan.

Winter kills lots on ’em, thi so tichy tha sees.
Thi fall dee-ad and frozen, from frost covered trees.
Thi reight tichy are wrens, but with hearts like giants.
I’d mek ’em British bird not eagles nor robins reliant.
Thi worra wren on a farthing when I were a lad.
Wren farthings still seem like the most cash I ever had.

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