My graduation

Early days - my mother and I

It was 1942...

Introduction by Mary-Anne Vale

Introducing:
Marcelle Pollington B.A., Grad.Dip.R.E. Anglican. Dip.Counsel.

As a poet, Marcelle explores the gamut of human experiences and emotions. She grapples with the human condition and the common struggle we all share, to come to terms with weighty concepts such as the realisation of our mortality; the value of friends (animal and human); the importance of family, and the impact of history and memories on our emotions. She is also able to take a particular sight or scene and describe it with such poetic resonance that it almost becomes our own. Her poetry narrates, describes and records a lifetime of memories. A well-defined sense of humour emerges from her poetry and reveals her to be an insightful and intellectual creator of colourful and apposite imagery.

Please enjoy Marcelle’s passion for life and her maker; her appreciation of the value of experience; and her boundless love for the beauty found in nature and the simple things in life …

The Flowers of Spring

One drizzling winter’s day
I went to town and bought
spring-flowering bulbs.
In my mind’s eye I saw
almost a host of daffodils
a-dancing line-on-line,
so delicate and fine,
along my garden path.

Spring showers brought forth spring flowers,
and bulbs were sprouting green
in many garden beds:
jonquils and tulips and daffodils,
everywhere but here.
I dug mine up and found
they had rotted in the ground
beside the concrete path.

Well, better late than not, I thought,
so went to town again, and bought
expensive tulip bulbs, imports
from Holland, guaranteed to bloom.
A very pleasant sight
possessed my mind – a double bed
of tulips, gold and red,
along my garden path.

The early summer’s rain and warmth
brought forth green shoots.
Small bikes and tricycles
were pedaled up and down,
and often off, the garden path.
Children careered along each row,
leaving a few bedraggled blooms to grow
beside the concrete path.

But then I saw spring with my heart today:
A small girl, skipping, came my way.
Her Daddy’s smile was on her face,
her pretty dress dripped fresh-torn lace.
A bunch of yellow-gold I spied
behind her back. Oh! Woe betide!
Fresh daffodils. “For you!” she said.
(plucked from my neighbour’s flower-bed)

A Tribute to Sally

(My Labrador Companion died in 1996, aged fourteen years)

When you died, then went a part of me – of heart and soul.
I do not grieve for that, I owe you so much more
for all those long, long years of single-minded love
you gave to me. I called it ‘cupboard love,’
the times we shared sweet treats, but teasingly.
My words were lightly said, not meant for real.
Now sorrow has o’erlaid those pleasant memories,
and I fear that I may never be that smiling self again.

This gloomy house reflects my empty hours.
The loss of you is felt in every room.
I miss the shared routine of how we were:
experiences shared, that take a lonely life
and make it seem worthwhile and meaningful.
That next-door cat sat on the fence and stared,
unheeding, when I called to shoo him off.
I’m sure he senses you have gone away,
and sees me solitary, so doesn’t care.

Our garden is alive with colour, and bees on flowers
and on the clover in the grass. There I stand
with hose in hand, and miss your watchful presence
by my side, through oh, so many pleasant hours.
All these – these things we loved and times we shared -
are why I grieve, beloved friend. I loved you so.
I know you had to die. ... All life must end, I know.
But knowing cannot ease the hurt in me.