the poet
Niamh Hollis-Locke was born in England but now lives in Aotearoa (New Zealand). She holds a BA in English Literature and History, a BA(Hons) in English Literature, and a Master's in Creative Writing. Niamh's work has been published widely in Australasia and the UK, including in Starling, The Spinoff and takahē. She was shortlisted for the Ginkgo Prize Best Poem of the UK Landscape Award in 2023, and guest editor of Issue 14 of Minarets the following year. In 2025, Niamh was awarded a mentorship by the New Zealand Society of Authors to work on a children's fantasy novel.
the poems
No. 1 Radio School /
Locking Parklands
At dawn the fox is in the field beyond the houses again,
high-kneeing it through last August’s stubble
in his burning coat, flickering
in and out of hollows downslope toward the lane.
Where is he going, alone like that? Gone now,
down the valley, off to Weston perhaps – to the sea
and the hospital where you are
waiting to die. I throw on
gloves and hat and follow him
out in to the grey light, looping
the close with its cars and their drivers still asleep, and
up over the fence to the church,
the world all hard ground and brittle air. It is
a hoar morning and teeth
are blooming in the graveyard;
no Reynard, but milkbulbs, premolars, and
a few premature cowslips withering by the stile.
Over the road the housing development is unpicking
the RAF base of your latter-youth,
stout trees and barrack-blocks eaten
one by one.
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Gardening
(September, at dusk)
Snail trails silvering in the porchlight
on the steps, the smell
of bruising
oregano as I work apart the root ball; work
it slow, work it gentle, try not
to break the stem.
An ant party is happening
in the dropped dirt. So many
small lives –
abdomen, thorax, mandible – dancing
messages back down the line.
All we have is our bodies. Hands
meeting damp earth,
sharp white TV static of bare feet on concrete,
a flourishing ecosystem
of pain in my lower right side where they cut, two fingers
up from the hip.
Offerings / Reynard
At night we leave
scraps out in the garden
for the fox.
I sit in the study with
the lamp off for hours, forehead
against cold window glass,
willing him to appear –
quiet wanderer,
sharp-toothed ghost,
red coat black in the flat of the moon and
nothing.
Only
me,
darkness sitting heavy on the roof of the house,
and the lights of the town down the valley
over the fields,
reflecting off the sky.
Publishing credits
No. 1 Radio School/Locking Parklands /
Gardening (September, at dusk): exclusive first publication by iamb
Offerings/Reynard: NZ Poetry Shelf (September 8th 2025)