A SMALL MISUNDERSTANDING

This was the first prayer ever taught us,
Long before we could understand
Or be aware of our need for prayer.

Standing in ragged rows, eyes closed, we began,
‘Our Father, who art in heaven.’
But through a small misunderstanding
This became a little prayer for
‘Our Arthur, who art in Devon.’

Still, even not knowing Arthur,
We were happy that our prayer
Put that little intrepid wanderer
Into such safe and loving care.

                                               © Gwen Grant

        KEEP MOVING ON 

Move on to the next immovable object
And failing to move it,
Go around it or go through it,
Move on. 

Bang your head against a brick wall,
Stub your toe on the floor,
Catch your hand in that fast closing door,
Move on. 

Leave behind the broken heart,
Absorb the hurt.
Make a new start,
Move on. 

Because over the horizon
There will be a new day,
A new sun,
And even if there isn’t,
Even if there is storm and darkness,
And the sun has set and long since gone,
Move on. 

For you’re here and whilst you’re here,
Filled with fury, love and passion,
Give it another go.
Leave yourself wide open,
Take it in your stride.
Though you may hesitate and you may falter,
Regroup, reform, return,
Live life to the full and learn
To move on. 

                                   © Gwen Grant                 

SHUFFLING THE STARS

We shuffle the stars
Out of their places
Whenever we need
A new world
To surround us.                

Filling the heavens
With so many stars,
We create
A canopy of silver,
In whose shining
We see our own reflections
Touched with glory. 

At last,
Becoming wholly 

    Distinctive individuals. 

                     © Gwen Grant

I love going away almost as much as I love coming back
and the new lines of a new place always interest me.
New York seemed to be all lines and I loved it.  Loved,
too, the unexpected and always welcome meetings with
people I didn’t know.

  LINES

The best lines are those
Drawn freehand.
Lines that sway and swerve,
Dip and curve,
And end
In huge flowers
Or a magician’s hat.

The worst lines are those
Drawn by ruler.
Horizontals,
Verticals,
Diagonals,
Which lie straight as a die
And end
In motorways,
Or, ‘Sorry.  No Exit!’

The most exciting lines are those
Drawn by travellers.
Lines that go
Straight
Around
The world,
And end
In meetings
Or new places.

                             ©GWEN GRANT   

    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 them, 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. 

                                            © Gwen Grant