Terry Collett Poems

Your husband stands
by the window, his tall,

thin frame is turned
...

You turn
and gaze down
at Ness
by the stream,
...

about Saxons or Vikings
or some such thing
you walked home

from school
...

She can etch with
her finger the place
he lay on the bed;
see the indentations
...

She had dried His feet
with her hair. She'd not
forgotten that. Not long
after she'd seen the same
...

Sophie Syncope
suffocated

her sixth child,
...

Anny Horowitz doesn't run down
the shopping aisles
as your grandchildren do,
she holds the trolley,
...

On the way home
from senior school
you met Fay
on the corner
...

If only he wrote poems for
her like Byron did those
whom he knew, if only her
...

It was late
one Sunday afternoon
when you must have been
about 11 or 12
...