Lorely Forrester was born in Kenya, raised in the Caribbean and started writing as a young child. She later graduated from King’s, London Uni, then worked in documentaries and magazines in London. Moving to Ireland, she is now an Irish Citizen living in Co. Sligo where she was Editor/Feature Writer of Discover Sligo Magazine for many years. Her poetry has been published in Cassandra Voices, appeared alongside an Editor’s review in The Galway Review online, Dec 2024 (in print, Galway Review 13 Spring 2025); her poem, ‘Planting Peonies’ won 1st Prize at Westport’s 49th International Arts & Literary Festival, Westival 2024; she was listed for Kilmore Quay International Literary Festival Poetry Prize 2024, she has also been published in Mediterranean Poetry, The Galway Review (on several earlier occasions both online and in print) and The High Window amongst others.
Stranger, relinquish your sense of self and come to me
like a pilgrim, on quiet feet, faceless and humble. See
what I see: you are nothing, a moment passing unseen,
a fleet shadow on the flank, water slipping between
two stones. No taproot tethers you deep within my coil,
my anchorage; nor did your blood spring from my dusty soil;
you have no provenance, no history of toil, no imprint here
to slip into. I will not notice when you fade and disappear
like autumn mist. Did you force up through stone-scree’d
plummet-sides like all my ancient trees? And if you need
a sturdy, slate-roofed house that can resist my lashing rain,
and see it rise, only to wash away, you’ll make it rise again?
And would you stay, and rear your young as though
there were no other world, yet see them long to know
another life? And bow to fire and water mastering all
my realm, not man? Imagine rushing heat, a blinding pall
of gagging smoke, and noise – flames swarming in like war,
unstoppable across my flanks, hungry and seeking more.
Where is the water then? Just capricious summer streams
flirtatious and coy, miraging in strong sunlight like dreams
on waking. Yet raging waterfalls will gouge my winter slopes
bare as old bones: trees, rocks and earth all gone, just hopes
of new beginnings left clinging on. Fickle, my mountain ways,
but known to boar and badgers, the vultures, and bright jays
who ride my skies. I care not and only give to those who ease
and fit around me, seeking neither to be pleased, nor please.
Stranger, unless your ancient birthright dyes my buried stones,
unless for untold centuries your peoples’ bleaching bones
have lain beneath my trees, do not come lightly to this place:
you are not sought, your foot falls alien and it leaves no trace.
Cherry Stones
We caught the bus back
from the beach
each day, hot under
a bleached sky,
wide eyed
at the gun slung
over the driver’s seat.
The sun stole the air
from the bus
each day, but we
didn’t care. We
had swum in the
cyan sea, were replete
with fresh sardines
and sweet nothings.
We bought red cherries
from the stall
at the beach each day,
then caught the bus.
Blasé with the gun,
towels and swimsuits
wet heaps on the seat,
naked under my dress,
bare sandy feet,
lips, blistered with sun
and with kisses, spitting
sucked cherry stones
into the street.
First published in The High Window, 2022
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Poetry in this post: © Lorely Forrester
Published with the permission of Lorely Forrester