quiet cottage


The space between words
Is a place of great comfort,
Where the mind can rest
And the eye assess
What is to come.
To prepare for the future.
So it is with prayer.

For prayer is the space
Between being and doing.
A place of great quietness
Where the heart can find ease,
Mind and soul
Find new strength
To face whatever lies in front of us.

                                   ©2019 Gwen Grant


William Utermohlen


 That conversation had its ups and downs.
Words like axes
Cutting at the very root of joy.
Hacking whole orchards of dreams
Into oblivion.
Throw those words out of the window,
Let the sun cleanse them,
The wind blow them away. 

This conversation is fairly bowling along,
Words like flowers
Growing whole meadows of dreams.
No dream excluded.
Put those words in your eyes,
Let them warm all who read them,
The gentle wind blow them into love. 

                                    © 2018 Gwen Grant


Mabry mill with fall foliage along the Blue Ridge Parkway in Virgina.


The Old Mill at the bend,
Where, every now and then,
The Mill pond is called back
By the water pouring itself
Into a great flood,
Covering the old road,
Filling the sunken garden,
Drowning the lanes
In witch soaked water,
So that no-one can come or go.
No-one disturb the ghosts
Of all the women drowned
As witches.

We don’t want them
Floating on top of the water.
Their dying eyes remembering,
Their mouths wide open with curses
To fall on those murdering men.

Witch hunters
Want those words laid upon them swept away.
Want the drenching fear of the dark spells lifted.
The women drowned all over again.

They should be so lucky.

The one with hair red as sunset,
White boned with wispy fingers,
Red heart bright with living fire,
Who has waited out the centuries
To claim her righteous vengeance,
Will take back every last curl
Torn from her dying head by jealous women,
Working hand in hand with murderous men.

Take heed, then.
Killers take care.
Remember the wronged dead,
Still lying amongst the dark weeds,
Still floating and drifting
Down and along the old Mill pond.

They do not forget
But wait by the Mill at the bend.
Their dead tongues clacking,
Their heavy shadows bending life and death
To their implacable will.

                   ©2020 Gwen Grant


falling stars

When I was a girl, I was sent away to Kent, to a kind of hospital
school to make me better.  I was only there a year yet that year has given
me memories for a lifetime, good and bad.  The Kentish woods helped me
settle because they formed a link to my much loved woods of home. 


I walked the spine of morning
Whilst the birds slept.
Their little feathered bodies
Absorbing the melody of leaves,
The quiet breathing of grass,
Waking to the delicate sounds of light changing,
Their tiny anthems gathering strength
Enough to fill the woods with song.
Drowning these cool Kentish pathways
With joy and praise.

Where, last night, a falling star
Tumbled through the trembling leaves
Shoring up this world’s quiet beauty.

I saw it fall.
The little wren and the robin at my shoulder,
The nightingale singing into the morning light.
Our eyes clinging to the long radiance
Of Jupiter and Mars shining briefly
Onto that star ridden path.

Setting that quiet Kentish wood ablaze
With the glory of falling stars,
Of little birds singing.

                                 © 2020 Gwen Grant