cezanne fruit


There’s no more, is there.
It’s all gone.
The love that was meant
To last a lifetime
Has somehow trickled away.

There’s no help for it,
No healing.
Memory is hopeless,
Desire, useless,
Even though that beauty
You once saw,
You suddenly see again.

It’s too late.
You know it’s touch at fault,
That tingle on the skin
Is missing
And nothing can replace it.
Nothing fill that particular emptiness.

Best look to the sun, then.
Start all over again.
Because love tells us
With absolute certainty,
It’s not going to be dark
For ever.

         ©2020 Gwen Grant.


frost on grass


All these years, we have lived
With lies as light as thistledown
In our minds.
Memories of those times
We broke with love
Bringing a sad remembrance.
Turning sunshine to frost
In an instant.

These are the memories
We want to polish up.
The ones that make us sad,
Uncomfortable, uneasy.
Make them more forgiving,
Sweeter, perhaps,
As if they had never happened
In the way we remember.

But we know enough to understand
No good ever came
Of turning memories into lies,
No matter how much
We may want to lie or be lied to.

In that dark time, then,
When we can no longer find
Forgiveness in ourselves,
When thistledown lies
Weigh heavy upon us,
Offer them up.

Offer up those memories,
Just as they are.
Offer up those times
We have not loved.
Offer them all up,
Trusting and safe in our trust
That Love itself
Will take each sorry heart,
Turn bitter frost to sunshine.

                                   © 2016 Gwen Grant

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Tradional fairground ride


The wise woman rises early,
Stepping into clean, fresh clothes,
Pulling on her lovely crease-free trousers,
Her unwrinkled Tee clinging neatly to her shoulders,
Her shoes so sparkling clean and pretty,
Even the flowers admire them. 

‘Bye!’ calls the wise woman,
As she goes singing on her way,
Everyone making room for her.

The tired woman rises far too late,
That extra five minutes somehow getting away from her.
And look! The clothes fairy hasn’t been!
So she wears crumpled Tee and wrinkled trousers.
Her shoes so dusty and dull
Even the flowers try to hide them. 

No ‘Bye!’ from this tired woman,
As she goes yawning on her way. 

But the wise woman makes room for her,
For tired tomorrow, wise today.  

                                                    © 2018 Gwen Grant