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.’
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.
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.
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.
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.
Poems by Gwen Grant 