GREY GEESE FLYING


These last weeks of Spring, the sky has been
alive with birds rushing anxiously about,
clearly with no time to waste what with nests
to make and new chicks to take care of. The cat
in this poem died three years ago and is buried
under the Philadelphus, which is covered now
with blossom. I still very much miss his beautiful
silken presence. As he grew older, he didn’t
bother so much with rushing about for any
reason. I so much know now how he felt. about
taking it easy.

GREY GEESE FLYING

Late afternoon,
The geese only now flying
Over the meadow.
Their faint calls
Barely breaking the silence.

Yet, the cat,
Supposedly sleeping,
Instantly lifts his head.
Dandelion paws
Darting down the garden,
Gold eyes burning
With the desire to fly,
To catch those
Faraway geese

And kill them.

©2021 GWEN GRANT

THE PALE ROAD

 I like to hear the sound of our clock in the night. It’s a great comfort when you can’t
sleep to hear the unconcerned ticking. There used to be a brilliant clock in Dundee
which had, I think, nursery rhyme characters that came out and performed on each
chime. We would go and watch it until the hours made us move on. I haven’t seen or
heard this particular clock in years but it was so colourful and friendly. We collected
clocks once and they still live all over the house, some still ticking, some chiming,
some cherished.

  THE PALE ROAD

The house is quiet, silent,
Except for the ticking of the big clock
At the bottom of the stairs,
Whose chimes keep company
With those who cannot sleep.

Just before dawn,
A thin moon slides in through the window
And in a moment those awake
Walk the pale road of remembrance,
Of longing, until the past
Becomes the pale road of prayer.

Let the clock chime again,
That the past may be left behind,
The moon soothe the restless heart,
The whispered words bring peace.

                      ©2021 Gwen Grant.  

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ROAD WORKS


ROAD WORKS

They dug up the road yesterday~
And all night long
The traffic lights have gone
From red to green and back again
In orderly succession.

No-one got held up.
The fox went through on red,
A jogger on green,
The hedgehog from across the road scuttled by
And the cat who rules the night
Ignored them all.
Turning into a red, green and orange shadow
Curled up by the gate
Until it was sure what was going on.

Tomorrow it will all be taken away,
The magic lost
And the world will have to go back
To steady colour,

With a bit of black and white
As the night draws in.

©2026 GWEN GRANT

LULLABY

LULLABY

Lullabies are for little children
Promised lovely dreams
And gentle awakening.

We are not children,
Our dreams exhaust us
And we awaken tired and weary.

Our lullaby is of plain song,
Stern, elusive, promising nothing,
Yet still singing.

Reciting
The long authority of hope.

Reminding
Of Love forever holding
The promise of a new beginning.

So quietly lie and close your eyes,
Love itself will sing our lullaby.

©2021 Gwen Grant.