Sandra Hill

Colours float away from me
past unforgiven hurts, wounds not healed.
The water calls me in.
A tiny diamond surfaces.
by Gail Bohle

Surging into the mist
mysterious forms rising
calling me curiosity
carried on the breeze
eyes to the light.
Cocooned in not knowing she
takes the edges off
harsh reality
it can no longer be.
Colours float away from me.

What are these things whose grip has me
reaching for gin, Panado, Kleenex?
So shadowy they defy definition
so real you’d crack
crack your nose if you walked into them.
“No monsters allowed” I gaily peeled
I, a closet monster maniac
secretly stashing them,
stockpiling congealed
past unforgiven hurts, wounds not healed.

Darkness closes over my head
the underworld greets me
puts a smile on its face
enticing me onward, downward.
No more breath to hold
the dizzy feeling grows thin
I shoot to the surface light-headed and panting
floating on my back I look up at the sky
and wink at the moon’s kin.
The water calls me in.

It smells sour
like spilt milk and unshed tears
angering me
making me furious, livid with rage
beyond words I poke this anger
with sharpened sticks and hisses
knowing I too will grow old
if I’m lucky it won’t bother me
if I’m lucky it won’t bother Mrs.
A tiny diamond surfaces.

Sandra Hill


Safety net
this damp, dank you.
Tidal swamps,
clear as our own mud
marshy with uncertainty,
with tongues push on through
this risky country.
No voice, this form, no expression
to tame, to plant
rhododendrons with lavender
another stronger to live.

Another stronger to live
rhododendrons with lavender
to tame, to plant
no voice, this form, no expression.
This risky country
whose tongues push on through
mud as clear as our own
marshy with uncertainty
tidal swamps.
This damp, dank you
safety net

Sandra Hill


Petrol fumes permeate
– petrol and 
the bad, bad smell of forgotten crayfish
illegally caught and stowed.
Green as weed, her name is Torpid
slow and sluggish,
not a hybrid of Tor and
stupid as her ex boyfriend resentfully thought.
It was hers
all hers
temperamental brakes, rust on the bonnet,
loose connections, freedom.
Careering along De Waal Drive
she forgot to look.

She forgot to look.
Careering along De Waal Drive,
loose connections, freedom
temperamental brakes, rust on the bonnet
all hers.
It was hers.
Stupid, her ex boyfriend resentfully thought
not a hybrid with Tor
but slow and sluggish
green as weed, her name is Torpid.
Illegally caught and stowed
the bad, bad smell of forgotten crayfish
and petrol
– petrol fumes permeate.