THE LION MAN
This lion man
Is so beautiful
It makes my heart
For in its
Wrecked and lovely
Born from darkness
Into this greater darkness,
Where every soul realizes
Yet lovers must love,
From loving lips.
In their enduring,
In their laughter,
In their bold living.
To that darkness.
Inhabit those frozen
Create the Lion man
In us all.
© 2019 Gwen Grant
FETCHING THE WATER
My mother used to walk around
that sullen pond,
Ringed with bushes of vermilion flowers,
Sour nettles and wicked brambles
That would reach out to snag her, rip
her flinching skin.
Frightened, she would hurry past,
Carrying clean pails to fetch clear water
From the chapel pump,
So they could have a cup of tea,
Get the day started.
While the pond turned darkly over,
Long toad tongues snapping their
Out of the ghost ridden air.
© 2020 Gwen Grant
When I was a child, there was an Apothecary’s shop in our town.
Walking in there was walking into a different world and I was
always surprised to come out and find the ordinary, familiar street
waiting just where I had left it.
LIVE THE MOMENT
So much of yesterday has gone into today
That even as dawn lifts the darkness
We are left behind, caught in the past,
Half looking for a way out,
Half longing to stay where we are.
Memories, brightened with a spit and polish
To smarten them up,
Clear away time’s dust that we may see them fully.
As if we ever could.
Our minds are apothecary’s chests,
Full of deep drawers marked in neat Latin print,
Happiness. Joy. Regret. Grief. Sorrow.
Where in the deepest drawer of all,
The one that runs right along the top,
Is love, that let’s yesterday fade away
And today take over.
©2020 Gwen Grant.
All material on this blog is copyright but if anyone wants
to use part of it, then please get in touch.
We’ve always had cats in our house. The first one was jet black and
ruled our Keeshond puppy with a paw of iron. The dog used to wriggle
past the kitten, too afraid to stand up and walk. Our present cat is
quite old now yet can still leap up onto the fence as if the height
is nothing. It’s magical to watch. This cat has given us so much
pleasure with his beauty and grace, that I wrote this poem in his praise.
Our cat sits on a wooden seat
And looks at me,
As I look at him.
What he sees is someone who feeds him,
Someone growing slower,
What I see is a cat as sweet as an apple,
As lovely as a snowflake
Or a feather.
When he moves, uncurls, twines around
As if his bones were made of water,
A great smooth engine purrs into life,
So that this cat,
If he wanted,
Could lift the world up on his paw,
Use it as a ball to play with.
Even when he grows old,
His eyes blurred and filmed with age,
He will still be lovely.
Each time I see our cat,
I am thankful
For the generous hand of love.
© 2017 Gwen Grant
Late summer now
And the little lost paths
Are dry and cindery under foot;
Dust and the early mist
Curling around the edges of the day.
A leaf falls, as the trees
Shake their slow golden heads,
Filling the air with the sad sound
Of leaves falling, drifting, tumbling down.
Over the hedge, the stubbled fields
Sigh, and settle into waiting
For their dry stalks to be ploughed
Into the earth.
Lovely furrows then, stretching
Into the infinity of a much older vision.
And Autumn dances in the woods,
Her red and orange skirts
Billowing around her twinkling feet.
Her red-berried head bobbing with excitement
As the time comes
When her beauty can be seen in the burning forest,
Her loveliness caught in the cobwebbed hedgerows,
In those tiny, sparkling shawls of light,
That wrap us about
With the fierce grace and beauty of love.
© 2011 Gwen Grant