Amy Hollins Poems

The solo of the nightingale, her sweet extravaganza,
might well be launched in tedium, telling of neglect,
just as your garden-robin, chirping so engagingly
upon the spade - here to stake a claim for tenancy --
...

I have been fond of grey since finding Whistler's
Mother, grey with a modest black and white ...
a chastity in Quaker terms. Winds
that freak the blossom over greening slabs
...

I celebrate the drawing-in of days,
a dowsing of the sunlight,
early camouflage of going home, or
of not going home,
...