Children are always certain
Someone has forgotten
To give them wings,
And that one day,
Wings will suddenly sprout
Out of their shoulder blades,
With enough feathers
For an entire flock of eagles.

Childhood has long since gone
But I am still waiting.

                   © 2020 Gwen Grant


    A reconstruction from bones believed
     to be
Cleopatra’s sister, Arsinoe IV


I have seen them
Down in the valleys,
Up on the meadows,
Carefully digging and sifting
For remnants of a past age and generation,
Finding beads, bits of gold, sometimes
                             bracelets and bones,
Always bones.

Here is my sister.
I can see her as she once was,
Clothed in skin and slender,
Lying in her bony shallows,
Where nothing much is left of her.
Yet I am glad they cover her
When it starts to rain.

For, in my mind, she stands before me,
Long and lovely, her smile dazzling,
Her elegant feet tapping against her grave.

Through the sound of raindrops
I can almost hear her whisper,
‘Welcome, my sister.’
As she stands on one side of her ancient
                                              death place
And I stand silently on the other,
Returning her greeting,
‘Welcome, my sister.’

Centuries apart, it’s a family thing.

                            © 2020 Gwen Grant



old farm machine

We were out in the middle of nowhere when I saw this derelict piece
of farm machinery.
We were surrounded by fields and fields with the
odd spinney
breaking up the green and brown like an exclamation
mark. I’m hopelessly in love with these northern landscapes and
from a distance, I saw what I thought was a man in a field,
it seemed to me how fortunate he was to be
out in that pure sunshine,
in that glorious
land. If you’re going to be abandoned, there was no
better place.

        THE IRON MAN

I saw an iron man on the way north.
He was digging in a field of red earth,
The earth so red
It matched his rusty bones.
As we drew closer,
I saw with my own eyes
It was not an iron man, of course,
But some old farm machinery
Abandoned in a hedge,
Left to rot in the hard, cold hand of winter.

That iron man will never dig the red earth out.
Never throw a spadeful over his shoulder.
Yet men of iron and we, of blood and bone,
Have one thing in common.
We all need someone to help us.
They to have their rusty bones made bright again.
We to have our rusty hearts made new,
To shine again.

The iron man will have to wait until times change,
Until someone shows up who loves old farm machinery.
But our help has already shown up,
For hope will change us
And love will shine up the world.

                                               © 2018 Gwen Grant


rainbow mountain
 Rainbow Mountain, Peru

When I was 12 years old, I decided I would walk to the end of a
rainbow, find the gold and we could all live happily ever after. 
Several hours later, almost too tired to take another step, the rainbow
as far away as ever and fading fast, I headed back home.  I found
something on that expedition, though, as I’ve never forgotten it.


All life exists
At the end of a rainbow.
Witches on broomsticks,
A Knight in shining armour.

I don’t really think so.
The last time I looked,
There was only a crumble of dirt,
A grain of corn,
A rain beetle struggling through the leaf mould.

Still, we build
What we can
With what’s to hand.

                                          © 2018 Gwen Grant