Lamb in the picture
It still holds up the boy
in the pasture
more than family ever could
He’s still wearing a knitted beret
made by his red-haired mother
He watched her die first
Then he followed his father’s body along the same streets
His grandson
waits near the bridge by the river
He puts his arms around a tree
hard bark against his beating heart
I do not bend to pick up the small marble angel,
cold on the dirt
do not say there is a kingdom now
there was no king there then
Anne Hill is a New Zealand citizen on paper. She is very grateful for this.
She wanted to be a poet from age 10, when she stole her first poem from a student at another school and had it published in the Kingsford Primary School bulletin. It had bits that rhymed, and was about burnt-out buildings in a war zone. Her sister promptly pulled her up on plagiarism. She is sorry for that, but in her defence, she was overwhelmed by all the real poets who seemed to have a magic pass into a more exacting and informed world where spelling and grammar and literary knowledge and publication were the basis of authenticity. It wasn't until she was included in Blackmail Press that she started to believe that poetry might be a deeper, compassionate and more forgiving art that has space for the less exalted who sing made-up songs and tell themselves stories when they are alone. Sometimes she paints her poetry now. Poetry remains the place where her Asian Irish self can breathe.
She is 64 and lives in Auckland with a very good dog and a unique cat.
