LAST THURSDAY

Last Thursday?
That was the very hot day
When the wood pigeon laid down on the grass
To rest.
Wisely turning its head from side to side,
Watching for magpies
And for crows,
Knowing that if they spot him
He’ll have to move fast,
Unfurling his wings and ready for flight
In an instant.

For these killer birds,
Given half a chance
Will peck him to death.
Unpicking his feathery body
Until it lay all around him on the baking grass.
Dove grey feathers dotted with blood
Lying silent in the hot sun.
His agony fading in the morning air.

This small bird is careful
Not to let that happen to him.
Taking off the moment the long dark leaves
On the Cherry tree begin to shake.
Hiding the unfriendly presence
That has already landed
With its iron beak and deadly intentions.

So that’s him gone then,
Soaring into the sun,
His wings almost the colour of rain,
Vanishing into the trees in the summery distance.

©2026 GWEN GRANT

FUTURE TENSE

     FUTURE TENSE

The old girl lay sleepless in her bed,
Eyes staring through the dark,
Fretting at a future she couldn’t see,
Worrying at the hours and days and weeks
That lay before her.
Sleepless, she sighed again and again
‘If only I knew what the future will bring.’
Until the future, hiding behind the door,
Listening keenly, stepped in.

Picking up two particularly heavy days,
It smacked them round her head.
‘That’s one thing,’ it said.

 Then selecting an especially lovely
String of hours,
Gently laid them round her neck.
‘And that’s another,’ it said.
‘Now, before I go, is there anything else
You want to know?’

 ‘No,’ the old girl whispered, shaking her head,
Turning quick and over in her bed.
‘If it’s alright with you,
I’ll look at the stars instead.’

 ‘Good thinking,’ the future said.

                        © 2017 /26 GWEN GRANT

WORDS AND THINGS

Ever since I can remember, I’ve always loved words. I was
never put off by long and strange words, always wanting to
understand them and know how they should be said. I wanted
to be a writer from the get-go but never thought it would be
possible. Then I realised I didn’t care if it were possible or not,
I was GOING to be a writer. Now I have an Italian speaker
in our family and I absolutely love the sound of the words,
love the way they are said, love what they mean. The Bible
was my favourite book – a thousand stories and millions of
words. Page after page after page!! All right there in front
of me.

 WORDS AND THINGS

Sometimes, I gather up all the words I love and watch
them playing together.
It doesn’t do to have favourites, I know that,
But who can resist words that sizzle on the page and dance.
Some so irresistible whole poems are built around them.

Colours are always delectable,
Weaving their way through every get-together.
Colour words do, of course, have to be dealt with extremely carefully,
As favouring lemon over green
Will attract very sharp looks from orange.

Full stops and commas, paragraphs, colons, semi-colons,
Little Latin phrases, ‘Et tu, Brutus,’ etcetera, etcetera,
And those little raindrop marks that attend every speech,
Must all be taken into account
But can be missed out altogether if careless of censure.
Recommended.

A word of advice.
Do not ever forget the numbers family,
For if they are ignored or forgotten they get quite vocal,
Even a little spiteful and unforgiving.

No!  Keep them in sight at all times,
Insisting they play nicely. 
One and one making two, for instance.
Otherwise, you can never bring them to order,
Even when put into really pleasant columns,
They remain difficult and wilful.

 But there we are, that’s words and things for you.

                                © GWEN GRANT

APPLE MORNING

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

  LOSING THE LIGHT

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.

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