THE HAT

Hats have never agreed with me but I live in hope. The last time I tried one
on, the lady next to me, also trying on hats, every one of which looked
devastatingly pretty on her, took one look at me and silently shook her head.
I saw her point.

The hat was wearing me.

             THE HAT

This hat demands
Someone with a strong personality
To stand under its brim.
Someone who always walks
Down the middle of the pavement.
Who only ever patronises
High class establishments
Selling hats of good breeding.

This hat wants someone
Who always carries an umbrella.
Who never ducks into the nearest Pub
For strong drink and a bag of crisps
To sustain them, and who would never
Hang this hat on the back of a chair
To be attacked by a small Pomeranian.

After that, this hat felt so ill-used and abused
It demanded a new owner.

Very well!  If you insist!
But you just wait and see.
You’ll not get very far without me.

Obviously, the hat shrugged its brim,
Clearly didn’t believe a thing I had to say.
Calmly murmured that from here on in,
It would make its own way.
The last I saw of that very superior hat,
It was waltzing out of the door
On a very superior head.

Hmmm.  Pure luck of the draw, I said.

                                   ©2019 GWEN GRANT

APRIL VIOLETS

I know it’s far too early to look for violets in our
garden but I have a violet perfume which stands in
for them just now. When I was a child, the woods
where we played were full of violets and their scent.
My mother liked flowers you could pick or grow but
the violet was one of her favourites.


    APRIL VIOLETS

My mother wore violets,
A tiny twist of purple
Caught up in a small brooch
Of Whitby Jet pinned to her jumper.

Later, she would wear them in her hair.

        ©2021 GWEN GRANT

THE ARTIST

        THE ARTIST

The artist is a liar
About painting only what he sees
In front of him.
Slick lies of seduction slipping from his lips,
Falling from his tongue,
Like leaves falling from a wintered tree.
He tells so many lies
It’s a wonder he doesn’t go blind.

That naked breast she offers
On fingers thin and sharp as boning knives
Is not offered for free.
Painting the aureole so dark
Only the juice of damsons could create
Such a full, rich, bruising.

This dance hall dame, remote and lethal,
Puts no value on any part of her body.
It’s all for sale
For a wad of the folding stuff.

The artist rhapsodised about her hair,
Her eyes, her implacable face.
But no-one on earth could mistake
That sullen, knowing mouth
For the mouth of a woman
Who has given in to seduction.

I’ll say!
That’s the mouth of a woman
Keeping her trap shut
And counting the money.

The artist is a liar,
Telling so many lies
It’s a wonder he doesn’t go blind.
Certain that his painting is so beautiful
People will fight to have it on their wall.

When, all the time, he knows he has painted
Her ancient and watchful soul,
All bandaged about with suffering.

                             ©2019 Gwen Grant

THE MOON COMPLAINS

THE MOON COMPLAINS

The moon doesn’t want to come out tonight.
She doesn’t want to shine either,
Or put her best foot forward.
Really, she couldn’t care less.

After all, what did they do
When she was shining?

Blow things up, make tremendous fires.
Send people into hiding.

What was the point,
What?
Of being a moon in June,
A friendly moon of kindly light and roses,

If this was how she was going to be treated.

© 2026 GWEN GRANT