Rebecca Nash

Portrait of a snowy hill

All the flowers on all the hills are seared white with snow.

Their softness hardened by cold,
As breasts standing tall,
Breasts touched by a hand, raw and shivering.
A real hand,
Sharpened by air,
Not a warm bedtime hand of memory.

And I thought of you,
Telling her you loved her because
The snow fall was like the sky spewing forth the love it could not hold.

And the coldness sets deeper in my heart
And the coldness takes the easiness out of my breathing.
And the coldness makes my breasts stand hard like flowers.



a bit of death

Your restless heart is bound to brood
For the ribs arc runs stiff for keeping.

And the dirt builds up beneath your nails
For in the ground’s grip you murder sleep.

And as the mud cools in wettened hollows
You go sliding a little farther into the forest.

Go to the bits of brain that duck from light
Mind punctures lined in spider knitted thread

There the flies come buzzing one by one
To your god forbidden wish for death

And you will sink into the puddle cold
You will grab the ground for comfort

Till the river’s upstream laugh calls quiet
And you will swim and tire and float

Amongst the rocking reeds spitting stones
Weeping willows welcome home.



By Rebecca Nash

is a poet who lives in Lyttelton with her child, cat, dog and many spiders in the corners. She is a graduate of Victoria University’s IIML and likes to read poems in bars.