THE CORNFIELDS AT PRAYER

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THE CORNFIELDS AT PRAYER

So the long cool night begins
And through the quiet darkness
I thought I heard the corn stalks talk
Of all the whispered night-time prayers
Drifting over the fields,
Setting the corn to its own prayer whispering.

Then I heard the corn stalks talk
Of all the little living prayers.
The lovely hares leaping
And the small creatures seeking
The bread of life in the earth beneath them,
And quiet lovers walking the poppied grasses,
Breathing promises and prayers
Into the listening darkness.

I know I heard the corn stalks talk
Of the old traditions of hay-making and stooking,
Of sowing and reaping,
Of the laughter of bare armed innocents driven to distraction
By those thin shining spears prickling and stippling,
Until they almost longed to leave
The praying cornfields whispering.

I expect, though, that the corn stalks talk
Of different things
On the bleak plains of grief, for instance,
Or on the long shades of despair,
Taking for their own the bone bare prayer
Of the suffering heart bleeding into the suffering air.
All is loss and lamentation,
Until they sing of a strong and eternal love
That is forever sowing and forever reaping
Love at the beginning and love at the ending.
So the prayers of the world are heard
In the whispering cornfields prayer.

                             © GWEN GRANT

SEAHORSE MOVING

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    SEAHORSE MOVING 

This little seahorse,
Stitched to the linen
In my fingers,
With gold thread, silver, and a blue
So deep,
It promises unassailable peace. 

This tiny creature,
Delicate as kindness,
Moves through the darkest water,
Holding on to the hope
Of the next sunlit morning. 

Its fragile strength
Defeating the stormiest sea. 

                               © Gwen Grant

WAITING FOR SUNRISE

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   WAITING FOR SUNRISE

There they are,
Sheaves of hay lying in the fields
Like golden Lovers,
Waiting for sunrise,
Waiting for the sun’s warmth
To cradle their tired heads.
Make soft shadows of eyelashes
Lying quiet against their faces. 

Don’t wake them,
Let them rest.
For over the thorn hedge
In the next field waiting,
Winter lies on his elbow,
Frosty fingers all set
To kill summer stone dead.

Here comes the sun.
Time enough now to shake their shoulders
Before the frost gets close enough to touch them.

Hold hands, Lovers.
Hold hands and run.

                                                    © Gwen Grant