Archive of poems by Anne Kelly

In the lonely watches of the night,
the small hours of the morning
when sleep refuses its healing gifts
and small increments of hope secure the pace
until first light
chemotherapy, which has bloated my face,
destroyed my good cells,
assaulted my organs,
is like a whale gone mad.

Its great strength and power
threatens all it leans on,
shallow water is not its metier.
Life will be scrunched out
unless there is a compromise
and the whale safely slips back
to deeper water
leaving good properties in its wake.

by Anne Kelly

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