I have now seen so many new years, I almost feel as if I glitter with the sprinkled dust of long experience. Still, as the old saying goes, ‘There may be snow on the chimney but there’s a fire in the hearth.’  Wishing a fire in the hearth for everyone and very little snow.

           TIME AND AGAIN  

All the quiet hours
Have slipped away,
The laughing and the weeping
Whirled into nothingness,
But love remains,
Burning with the desire
To create a new reality.

We can change nothing that has gone,
Yet as unblemished time
Stretches out before us,
We are impatient,
Longing to tumble down
Those promised days.
Hold the hours together,
Holding on for each other,
Bringing hope,
Bringing love that changes everything.
                                 © Gwen Grant

Christmas Poem 2.

I wrote this about a shed in a long ago garden, which prompted a short story and also this poem.     

     A COLD CHRISTMAS

A thin, fine, dusting of frost glitters
On the dark roof of the shed
Standing at the end of the cold garden,
Ragged green and silvered weeds
Pressing around the empty doorway,
As if peering in at something
That might be happening
Inside that freezing emptiness,
Waiting for a blaze of warmth and light
To fill the empty bitterness.
Well, that miracle happened once
On a dark and freezing night.

Now, thorn red berries tipped with frosty crowns
Gather as quietly as a whispered warning,
Resting their icy faces
Against the cracked and frozen windows
Of a place cold enough to perish in.

There was no glamour then and there’s none now.
No twinkling tinsel, no soft lights glowing.
Just a woman’s baby lying in a manger,
The ox bringing a bit of warmth to the deadly coldness,
The donkey adding a little more,
Its long ears twitching at the patient man,
At the watchful woman waiting,
At the shepherds worshipping
This holy baby bathed in lamp light,
Moon light and love’s pure light.

Until that other freezing night
When three Kings came riding
To this icy, bitter shed.
Bringing their fabulous gifts,
Their aristocratic knees bending
To the little holy King,
Who already had a thorn red frosted crown
Waiting for His head.       

                              © Gwen Grant

Christmas Poem No.1.Christmas Poem No. 2. tomorrow.
Some years ago, I wrote a Christmas Play. One of the parts was taken by my good friend, Irene, who had a wonderful singing voice, so that when she sang, there was breathless silence. This is the poem I wrote about Irene and her Christmas carol.

WHEN IRENE SANG HER SOLO    

Our choir is so good
Angels come down to listen to them.
Those angels think I can’t see them,
But I see them,
Dancing on the head of a pin,
Lolling on the piano,
Or perching poker-backed on the tops of chairs
Where people are already sat listening.
They are very fond of songs where angels appear
And especially liked it that time
When Irene sang her solo,
‘Angels from the realms of glory.’
The angels liked that so much
The tips of their wings were quivering.
But when our choir sings about the Lord,
Those angels join in.
They think I can’t hear them,
But I hear them.
‘O Lord my God,’ our choir sings,
And the angels singing with them kneel down,
Their wings all spread around the singers as they sing,
Together filling this whole place with such tenderness
I bow my head and cannot look at them again
Until the singing ends.
The angels have all gone home by then.
‘Gloria in excelsis Deo!’  AMEN.                                                                                                          
©Gwen Grant

         LISTEN TO THE SILENCE

Quiet as a dove’s eye
Shining in the dark,
Love slipped into their lives,
Pushing aside darkness,
Bringing light blazing
Into uncertain corners,
Demolishing sadness.

This was the night
Stars exploded
Into clean, bright, radiant roses
Of hope and joy.
Whose petals fell silently,
Tenderly,into the desert
Of their lost and aching hearts.

Time for them to change direction,
Time to listen to the silence.
                                © Gwen Grant

          COMING AND GOING

 It’s been a strange year,
People coming and going as if there’s no tomorrow,
Dropping in from nowhere,
Burrowing and burning their way out to somewhere.
Flame or dust,
Passing each other on that long straight highway
That tells them nothing.
All moving carefully,
Just wanting to be safe,
Knowing that even at this late stage,
Safety is not a foregone conclusion.

We’ve all heard about the ones
Who almost went, then changed their mind.
Coming back for a last try at it.
We’ve all heard of those who went before their time,
Not bothering to turn around but moving on.
There’s the sadness of it.
There’s the pity of it.
For all of us, there’s the pity.

We defy the calendar that stares at us
Hiding pain and sorrow in its numbers,
Hiding loss so severe, borne only with fortitude.
So much is hidden from us.
So much sadness, so much joy, so much laughter,so much love,
So much tender longing that lives in a touch.
There is always hope in that Greek information,
Love opening to us a place of welcome
Where we warm ourselves on one another.

Poor saps.
But saved by love.

                                               © Gwen Grant