These May days are hot and green and surrounded by
green after the cold dark days of winter, I began to think of
magic. Into my mind came the leprechaun. It seems
there are quite different ideas of what a leprechaun looks
like but, for me, in these hot green hours, he seemed both
beautiful and magical. And that is how he stayed with me
during the writing of this poem.

LEPRECHAUN

Look at that face!
That’s a leprechaun’s face on that man, that is,
Full of sly humour, of hidden wicked laughter:
But what’s to be done, when a leprechaun won’t love,
Leaves heavy eyes and a dark enchantment
In those blinded by his triangular beauty,
Hearts torn apart with longing.

A beautiful, simple chimera,
Yet no-one can resist him.

See how his knowing music
That never adds up to the sum of its parts
But is enchantment,
Makes the listener dance fast, then faster, faster,
As if we have feathers for toes.

So light, the enchanted dance easily
With the frail and lonely ghosts
Sliding quietly into the living world.
Lovely in themselves but lovelier still
When the leprechaun makes the music cry
And the lost heart cry with him.

Look at that face!
That’s a leprechaun’s face on that man, that is.
Captivating, meant for love to flower in all who see it.
No-one can resist such beauty,
His knowing smile conquering every doubter.

Careful!  Careful!
For we all want to taste that mouth of mocking laughter,
See that twinkly-eyed thousand year face smile,
Close our fool’s ears to the harsh voice of sorrow, of hostility,
As that sly and wicked little heart,
That leprechaun,
Mocks us.

                             ©2026 GWEN GRANT

No fog this morning, except the fog of remembrance
when I look out of the window. The paddock is peaceful,
only the birds and the odd small dog racing wildly
across the grass. No sheep and no goats but the beauty
of it all remains. The white May blossom thick on the trees,
the crabby, bad-tempered crows threatening everyone but
we can cope because any day now the swallows will be back.

FOG IN THE MORNING

More fog.
In the paddock,
Sheep, like ghosts,
Drifting up and down
The grass.

This could be yesterday
When we were all young
Together.

The early bus pulling up
At the Pit.
The sound of boots
On the half-hidden
Pavement,
In time for the early shift.

The rest of us asleep
Until the fog clears.
The sheep
Shaking it off their backs.

The lights of the Pit
Floating it
Clean away.

        © 2020 Gwen Grant

Available on Amazon Kindle and Draft2Digital e-books.

BLUEBELLS

Out of the dirt,
Two flowers
Pushed for life. 

Green stems,
Green leaves,
Delicate blue bells
Shaking in the wind. 

Aristocrats.
Rising above every situation
That would bring them down. 

          ©2021  Gwen Grant.

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