Trying to net a name for the ache:
warm belly-clench of sorrow
for the good and the sweet ones
we may not meet
but know by their light;
for the sudden tear-sting
at dusk as a blackbird sings
defiance at the creeping night.

Cemetery in December

I saw an Angel’s face Greened with tears.

Watched globes of mist lose form

And drip from holly tips.

The wind limped and keened

Between statues and trees

Where moss softens names

Of the no longer missed.

Arms askew, weeping pines

Reached to shuttered skies.

Onyx-eyed crows stood silent.


aled feet on lost leaves.

Storm breaks

Too full of their burdens,
the clouds’ sides tear.
Veil of tears drops to earth
Washing away the grime of days,
Dashing flotsam down drains.

A pluviophile lies listening
Thrilled by thunder,
Clarion of fresh starts.


The size of a grain of rice, a lentil,
Tail-anchored to algae petals,
so minute, unfeasibly cute.

Snouting from soft camouflage,
Tucked in curls of wafting current,
A tiny, briny dream.

I knew your heart would smile
When you saw it; unlikely, fragile,
But clinging on. Like love.

Polly Oliver ~2019




Poets and writers we may seek to be-

But do we then lack authenticity

When each pearl’d drop of life is pooled away

And re-cast in cold ink on another day?

‘True’ living and recording will never quite chime,

Experience twists for the bard for her rhyme.