The Poems

Forsythia

From the Christmas, 1998, issue 

(No. 2)

yellow petals on the wet walkway near the door where dead letters lie

while forsythia hunches inside counting marble memories from a jar

they popped up everywhere

the ghostly white orb in the grass at granddad’s funeral

the crazy-quilt agate like a mexican blanket rootled from the sand

on her honeymoon

the cat’s-eye after the stillbirth

and the swirling blue and white sphere she found the day

the rock who was the world slipped away

Ian Allaby lives in the Annex. He is a periodical writer whose work has appeared in Descant and Storyteller. Last updated Christmas, 1998.
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