BREAK GLASS – IN CASE OF FIRE

The Sun has wrapped itself
Around their hair and lies there,
Waiting,
Watching for anything beautiful
That might come its way.

Their lips look as if they might kiss
Or lightly touch each other,
Silent air quivering between them,
Half-closed and vulnerable eyes
Flickering in the old movie version
Of what might come tomorrow.

But they are careless, breathless,
In this moment’s need,
Now the sun has set a fire
Burning between them.
A glass of wine perhaps needed.

Getting late.  Darkness coming.
The sun shakes itself free
Of all desire and passion.
Brighter flames consuming
These eager Lovers,
Or burning them down
To dust and ashes.

               © 2020 Gwen Grant           

All material on this blog is copyright but if anyone wants
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   http://www.gwengrant.co.uk

SONG

In this austere and lovely space,
Where the kindly dust
Of close-lived hours falls gently down,
Where memory plays its own cantata
In each one of us,
Song pours out,
Raining down the paved streets and concrete
Of cities,
Drenching the waiting, watchful towns
Until they flower,
Rooting themselves in a torrent of melody.

Living proof that hope can never be extinguished,
That gaiety and gladness will blossom
Over and over again.
                                                      © 2018 Gwen Grant

 

  FLOWER WIDE-EYED AND OPEN

When she was at her worst
She was still interested in flowers,
Touching the petals gently
Before ripping them off.

For a long time, it was all destruction,
Until she found the bulb
Lying on top of a flower bed,
Pushed out by the hidden spite
Of things in the earth beneath it.

‘Just like me,’ she said, picking it up,
Planting it in the blue window box
Full of dark earth and seashells,
Not even glancing at it till Christmas.

Then, of course, she destroyed it,
For where she had expected a flower
She found snakes, and swearing they had bitten her,
Mashed it all up in her hands.

That bulb, sending out its delicate thin roots,
Keen as mustard to multiply,
Didn’t stand a chance.

Next time, we’ll give her a fat rosy bulb,
Flower already wide-eyed and open.

                           © 2020 Gwen Grant

 

   THE FALL OF ICARUS

Icarus must have fallen into our garden last night.
He must have landed with a thump,
Knocking all the feathers off his wings
Because the grass shone
With soft cream clover,
The startling embroidered white of daisies
And in the small brown pots
That were empty at dusk,
Grew tiny iceberg roses,
Pale and pretty as moonshine.

                               © 2020 Gwen Grant

 

      PIT LANE

At the bottom of Pit lane
Stands the statue that isn’t there,
Glorious in its grace and dignity.

A catch of men coming off shift,
Sunlight piercing their helmets,
Pickaxes and tired faces.
All sculpted from black coal,
Bits of brass and coal dust.

In Spring, buttercups shine their steel toe-caps.
In Winter, snow warms their cold shoulders.
In any time, they forge their own strong
  and living presence.

                           ©2020 Gwen Grant.