By Allison Grayhurst:
The stone drops,
settles in the sand like a beetle.
Lovers die
for lack of trying.
Children wait like they
always have
to be made a priority.
The sun is swollen and breaking
on the crust of the universe.
A fairytale in a box, barely opened,
but already stronger than reality.
A last chance stored-up for
old age.
People are falling,
glass doors are ajar.
Someone is listening but no one
even smiles.
That stone drops,
it is made up of hard,
unforgiving stuff.
It stays,
and the surface
is its meaning.
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About Allison
Allison lives in Toronto with her husband, two children, two cats, and a dog. Apart from writing poetry, she loves to sculpt – working with clay.
Over the past twenty years my poems have been published in journals throughout the United States, Canada, Australia, and in the United Kingdom, including The Antigonish Review, Dalhousie Review, The New Quarterly, Wascana Review, Poetry Nottingham International, The Cape Rock, Journal of Contemporary Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry, and White Wall Review. Her work was also included in the Insomniac Press anthology Written In The Skin , while her book Somewhere Falling was published by Beach Holme Publishers, a Porcepic Book, in Vancouver in 1995.
