street at night


So now it begins with the sun striking through the tall windows,
Onto the old brown pews and onto the pulpit,
Onto the slender Cross where the weight of this weeping world
Is carried on helpless shoulders,
Onto the crown of thorns blazing in the shadows,
Burning the darkness with its crimson glory. 

This is not a gentle day, yet gentleness persists in breaking through,
For the soaring arc of the wide blue banner
Painted on the far wall of the Chapel,
Painted high above the polished table where blue scented grasses
Quiver in a silver goblet, unquestioning and faithful,
Presents to us those golden words painted on that lovely blue arc,
Words that insist ‘GOD IS LOVE’
Which gently insist it is this we must always remember. 

The singing is bright now, pausing, darkening, lifting, soaring,
Until a sudden startling descant adds its own touch of glory
To all tough and tender hearts caught in a flesh
Ever subject to death and to corruption, yet ever open to joy.
These singers of sacred songs seek the strength of God as they sing
And in those three plain words, GOD IS LOVE, find it. 

Then the crisp cold air smelling faintly of lavender
Drifts like a prayer into the silence and the silence is profound
As silence always is when God is listening.
And God is always listening.
And love is always sending its quiet hope out into the world. 

                                                                              © 2018 GWEN GRANT.




Waking in a morning
To that first startling recognition
Of being alive,
Alive, and to a certain extent, kicking,

We approach the mirror
With caution,
Blinking at our reflection,
Thinking we look a bit older
Than we did yesterday morning.

This is the point at which, sensibly,
We quote a touch of philosophy:
‘I think, therefore I am.’
That’s what the man said, obviously.
We’re glad we woke again.

                      © 2020 Gwen Grant


street light

I wrote this poem many years ago but can still remember the chair I sat in
to write it, the particular writing pad I had and the certain type of pen I
used.  It carries a lot of memories of people and times long gone.


Tenderly, let memory slide
From you to me
And me to you.
Gently, let time’s long tide
Wash over me
And over you.
From what remembered things
Are left behind,
From light to dark
We’ll pick and choose and find,
And use the whole
To heal and bind,
You to me
And me to you.

            © 1970 GWEN GRANT