Lorely Forrester was raised in the Caribbean, graduated from King’s, London, worked in magazines and now lives in Ireland. Editor of Discover Sligo Magazine for many years, she won 1st Prize for her poem Planting Peonies at Westport’s 49th International Arts & Literary Festival, Westival 2024, was listed for Kilmore Quay International Literary Festival Poetry Prize 2024 and has recently been published in Mediterranean Poetry, The Galway Review and The High Window amongst others.

Paper Rooks

Give me a winter’s day, all knuckle-bare
with nothing left to lose, a day I might not
choose in summer when froth lies
on the daydream.
But give me a winter’s day: the lean, picked
bones of trees gaunt on the purple air,
a sigh of wood smoke drifting on the breeze.
These are my thin, spare pleasures,
my treasures rare, all fair and square my own.

Not summer’s careless bounty do I swear by,
but these certain measures:
the clean warm snuffle-breath of cows,
soft by the flung farm sheds,
the sparrows there at dawn
to share my breakfast bread.
This is my wealth when life pares to the quick
with half-fledged, squeamish days,
with sifting rain on fields all blanched and slick,
with cold, low skies uncertain when to lift.

Give me a late grey dawn, the sudden
unexpected gift of pooling gold peeling
back the east; a heartbeat rush of wind-torn
paper rooks across bleak skies, the emptiness
that hurts the wide horizon of my eyes.
A laneway etched in delicate white lace,
all fragile and quite traceless in its borrowed grace,
a feast of snowdrops caught beneath the hedge.
Give me a winter’s day.

Passage IV

The day you were born my soul was made flesh,
my hopes prepared to walk the world
on feet so large the midwives brought their friends
to marvel. Dimples I had dreamed into your cheeks
took perfect form. My fingers recognized the heels
that had kicked against my ribs.

Your Grandpa brought bluebells and violets
from the hushed woods into the hospital,
he who never held babies in case they spilled.
Cool and misty blue, they echoed you,
my little miracle. Both from a different world.
Both gifts, to have if not to hold – a candle flame;
a singing bird alighting on my hand.

I could have noted then the steel in your
clenched fist, the light of battle in your eyes,
your shoulders squared up to the world,
my April ram, my punctual child,
for you never hid them. Steadily they grew:
strong roots, tempered foundations for the
flowering of your gentle Friday graces.

And now I have delivered you to the brink
of your life, to a threshold laid with your hopes.
Beside your breakfast plate with cards and gifts,
I place bluebells and violets, damp from the
early woods. And something else.
It is the costliest thing I will ever give you.
My readiness to let you go.

Atonement

I planted rue in my monastery garden,
its guileless blue-grey leaves gracing
my witching, holy beds of simple herbs
and edible delights.
Along these cloistered walks where untried
charms lie spread with silent, deckled sunlight
and wimple calm, astringent rue,
the bitter Herb of Grace o’ Sundays,
is planted there for you.

For I have need of grace.
Here in this jewelled, measured place
where lily pads hold heaven in their palms,
where lavender and pinks breathe sweet,
opiate balm, it’s easy to lose trace of things not said:
your inner hopes, eclipsed by the serene
and fallow path I often choose to tread,
while discipline is bred in rows of green instead.

But at my gates I have set watchmen new,
two at each end to stop me as I pass.
There where my lad’s love grew against the grass
I have placed rosemary and baneful rue –
herbs of remembrance and forgiving grace
to strew across my thoughts as I go past;
for while I’ve not done what you hoped I’d do,
yet in the end, love will still hold us fast.

For my mother, who named my potager the monastery garden

Christmas Morning

It is the stealing out of night,
the half-light before dawn that capture me.
The sight of a sky rinsed from cyan to indigo,
a new-born star low on the horizon,
a fingernail moon caught in the stark,
scoured branches.

It is a world laid bare that catches me,
snares my ripened heart.
A world breath-held and waiting,
steeped in its own spare beauty,
stripped of all trappings.
Such realms apart from all that waits within:
the tinselled noise, the feast,
the gaudy avalanche of gifts.

I feel I’ve chanced upon a stage all set,
the curtain yet to lift;
anticipation tingling in the crisp,
ice-fingered air, like effervescence
sifting through pale stillness.

My household sleeps, but I am not alone
in greeting Christmas. This pared back scene
feels tenterhooked and bated.
I stop and wait
then, suddenly it breaks
the piercing herald call: a blackbird’s song.
The loveliest gift of all
to greet this special morning.

For The Galway Review 13, Printed Edition, April 2025

Lorely Forrester’s poems exemplify a rare blend of technical mastery and emotional authenticity

Lorely Forrester’s poetry, captures the sublime beauty of life’s simplicity and the depths of human emotion with extraordinary grace. Each poem resonates with an intimate connection to nature, memory, and love, showcasing the author’s distinctive voice and evocative imagery. Congratulations to Lorely for sharing such exquisite pieces with the world; her contributions enrich the literary landscape of The Galway Review.

In Paper Rooks, the poet crafts a compelling ode to winter’s stark yet poignant beauty. Through vivid imagery of “lean, picked bones of trees” and “wood smoke drifting,” she elevates the often-overlooked treasures of the season. This poem reverberates with an appreciation for life’s raw, unembellished moments, where even sparrows sharing bread become profound symbols of connection.

Passage IV reveals the emotional depth of motherhood with tender reflections on the miracle of birth and the bittersweet act of letting go. The closing lines, offering “the costliest thing”—a mother’s readiness to release her child—are breathtaking in their emotional resonance.

Atonement skillfully blends botanical metaphors with introspection, weaving a narrative of reconciliation and grace. The “bitter Herb of Grace” becomes a poignant symbol of atonement and love, cultivated through the discipline of the garden and the complexities of a mother-daughter bond.

Finally, Christmas Morning is a masterpiece of restraint and reverence, depicting a moment of stillness before the festive bustle. The blackbird’s “piercing herald call” serves as the ultimate gift, a reminder of the simple wonders that define the season.

Lorely Forrester’s poems exemplify a rare blend of technical mastery and emotional authenticity. The Galway Review is fortunate to host such powerful work, and readers everywhere are richer for it. Bravo to the author on this remarkable achievement!

The Galway Review