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written by: Polly Oliver



Through wet-silver’d lanes

arc’d over with green

deep as myth you rode

under flying moon and pale sun-

rinsed pure and meek

by the adolescent year’s flurries.

The dough-soft hills of your kingdom-

whispering land startled awake-

rolled away under thudding black hooves

driven on by your urgent legs.

But how you wished instead

you could ride astride raven or hawk

whose route would not be thwarted

by the twists in ancient lanes

or sudden bends in old ways;

but direct as a feather-tipped dart

taking you and your love to the waiting heart

of the flower-cheeked one you loved before

your days flowed apart

carrying dreams to unplanned shores.

But you, beloved, stare down the dark,

riding with fury against the push of Time,

That rolls boulders to pebbles which lie

silent in the endless wash of tides.

Polly Oliver

Polly Oliver

JAN/FEB 2017 AUTHOR OF THE MONTH at Spillwords.com
A mother of two boys, scribbling from the Western coasts of the UK, mainly poetry, but whatever comes out really. Former journalist and PR professional, the first whispers of middle age and declining eyesight made having a real go at 'real writing' a little more urgent. A Cornish native, I made my home in South West Wales so the sound of the sea sighs through my work every now and then. Lover of nature, yoga, boutique coffee shops and occasional (and very dreadful) surfer.
Polly Oliver

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