Our apple tree, this apple tree, has tiny little apples
all over it, all ready to turn into big, round, juicy
apples that a lot of people share in. When I was
small, an apple was a rarity and even when I was
in Kent in that hospital school, we only got one
piece of fruit a week and that so often was not
an apple. But here we are with apples on
beautiful trees for those who want them.

    APPLE MORNING

 Early in the morning
When the mist comes rolling in from the fields,
And the queer little ghosties
Come riding and writhing within it,
Sometimes leaping the battered old fence,
Other times sneaking through the holes
In the lacy broken wood,
Crossing the garden like smoke,
Coming to rest under the apple tree,
It is then I see their long grey fingers
Reaching through the leaves,
Winding around the shining apples
As if to pluck them from the branch and eat them,
And by eating, gain life.

But then the Autumn sun slides
Into the garden behind them,
Patting the twinkling shadows
Into tiny shapes of apple and leaf,
Weaving the winking apples into its sunny fingers,
Swallowing the mist and the little creeping ghosties,
Dusting those green, green apples with a flush of rosiness.

Neither pen, nor film, nor brush, nor quill
Can catch their utter loveliness.
No, all that can be done
Is to pick and hold and taste their glory,
Whilst the birds, the goats,
And the horse in the paddock
Who leans its head over the dead Philadelphus,
Over the tiny ghosties hiding in the dying flowers,
All hold back to await another apple morning.

                                                              © 2018 Gwen Grant

I was taken aback when I realised how close we are
again to the longest night. That seems to have
come about very quickly. These light nights are
a boon to people who don’t sleep well.
When I was a girl away from home in Kent, in
a hospital school, the nights were totally black.
Surrounded by fields and woods, I was quite
willing to believe witches made that big old
building their headquarters. These nights I
look out of the windows and remember that
friendly light beaming out from a friend I never
actually met.

LOSING THE LIGHT

My unknown friend
Kept her light on all night.

Now she is gone,
Her room dark,
And I could not even salute
Her passing.

For we are a people
Set about by demons,
Busily securing
A place for us
In this terrible history
Of the world.

I miss my friend.

          © 2021 Gwen Grant.

.

The pheasants are out in numbers just now,
that is, the male pheasants in their glorious
plumage. But there, often just alongside, are
the quiet females, wearing their plain brown
dresses and looking just as beautiful.

PLAIN BROWN DRESS

The pheasant
In her plain brown dress
Stands still and silent
On the frost,
Thick now
As once fast fallen snow.

Fog, thin as water,
Pulled out the sun
To shine
A pale and fretful fist
Of warmth,
That never touched
The frozen grass.

Sheep watch,
As wild and hungry cat
Leaves paw prints
Down a shining path
Making straight
For that plain brown dress,
Startling now
With blood.

Pheasant small
And plumply fat,
Deny the wild and hungry cat
His breakfast.

Run, little pheasant, run.

© 2021 GWEN GRANT

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