Poetry from NHI publications
Once in my hand I held|
A glass made in Venice
Shaped like some freezing flower
And etched with a pattern so fine
It fell like pollen on the surface.
The glass, they said,
Would break like old bone:
Blown without lead.
I felt the strength of my hand.
Early this morning
I walked by the river,
And the day lay brittle as glass:
Frost glittering like flowers,
An echo of the face of running water,
Birds chiming like secret bells.
The afternoon, they said,
Would be cloudy.
Broken, and heavy as lead.
New Hope International Vol.14 #3
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When this poem was published in 1990 the author
was previously unpublished. Currently she is the literary editor of The Times|
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This page last updated: 24th November 2005.