Month: September 2020

RAINY DAYS

 

       RAINY DAYS 

Rain Birds
Balancing on the washing line,
Until the wind
Blows them off. 

Rain witches
Swooping down in showers
Of grey drops
And dying leaves. 

Rain ghosts
Tapping on the window,
Not stopping
Until someone lets them in. 

Rainbows
Bringing old memories made new.
Your hair beaded
With raindrops,
Your smile
Putting the grey day
To shame. 

Open the window,
Now. 

                 © 2020 Gwen Grant

WAITING FOR SUNRISE 

        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 rests on its 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.
                                                    © 2019 Gwen Grant

MAGNOLIA TREE

  MAGNOLIA TREE

The magnolia next door
Has been chopped down.
Never again will it scatter
Its blossom over the grass.

Nor will any wind
Bent on mischief,
Blow its silky petals
Into the water.

Letting the flowers
Dance on the glittering surface
Until they fragment
In the sun.

All that has gone now.
Caught for ever
In the sad and watchful eye.

                           ©2020 Gwen Grant

THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY

I just got so exasperated with the poem I was planning to write.  I could see
it in my mind’s eye. I could even hear it but I just could not write it. We
were planning a trip to Scotland at the time and I thought maybe that
was where my poem had gone, on the train before ours.  So the poem
that got away was probably perfect! Leaving me with this one.

    THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY

The last time I saw that poem
It was getting on a train
For the far north.
It likes it up there,
Crunching about in the ice and snow,
Climbing up small mountains,
Picking up the odd abandoned word
Or lovely phrase
Lying amongst the grey stones and heather.

By nightfall, it’ll be in its room, changing,
Emptying its pockets onto the bed,
Choosing a word to sparkle here,
A phrase to quietly glow there,
Getting set for a night of changing partners.
Until all scrubbed up, brushed down
And wildly excited,
It’s finally ready to dance.

Any time now,
I expect that poem to come home.

                                             © 2019 Gwen Grant

FOG IN THE MORNING

FOG IN THE MORNING

More fog.
In the paddock,
Sheep, like ghosts,
Drifting up and down
The grass.

This could be yesterday
When we were all young
Together.

The early bus pulling up
At the Pit.
The sound of boots
On the half-hidden
Pavement,
In time for the early shift.

The rest of us asleep
Until the fog clears.
The sheep
Shaking it off their backs.

The lights of the Pit
Floating it
Clean away.

        © 2020 Gwen Grant