We see things all the time that make no sense.  Things that set us wondering
how they exist  at all and this poem was made after I saw one
such thing. 
We were walking up a very, very small mountain and I was wandering along
one of its paths, when I saw this
one particular path. I followed it and found
that it led to the very edge of a high point.  Below, rocks were tumbling down
a steep and dangerous slope.  Why did the path exist?  I stood there with a
thousand questions, questions there was no answer to, as there never is
when we see something that doesn’t make sense.  The
only thing to do then,
is to write a poem.


There are paths all over this mountain.
They run through rock
And over grass,
As if a thousand feet
Had worn them into the ground.

Some paths go on for ever,
Winding up and down
Until we can no longer see them.
Others run a little way,
Then stop.

We walk up and down these paths,
Wondering who made them.

Especially do we wonder who made the one
That runs straight off the edge of the rock.

                                         © 2018 Gwen Grant




History is like a shed
We can shelter in
When present life is tough,
And the future
Doesn’t look up to much, either.

Mathematics is like a shed
We can shelter in
When nothing in our life adds up,
And the sum of love
Equals a big fat nothing

Hope is like a shed
We can shelter in,
For Hope is always at home
With the kettle on.
This is a good shed to live in.

The mathematics of love
Are always the same.
Love plus love equals love,

Until the sum of love adds up
To hope for us all.

Children first.

                               © 2017 Gwen Grant



We have a national park close to us which is a thing of beauty and
which contains such loveliness, you have to make yourself go home. 
The park is on old ground and standing on it, there is that eternal
feeling of all that has gone before and all that will come in the future. 
This park seems to include the sky as part of its sheer loveliness.   


Early Winter, and the geese are sailing
In a long straight line down the river,
Not knowing where they are going
But going, anyway,
Turning at the curve then coming back.
By their side, the wind is puffing up
Little drops of sunny water.

And as if the prophet was standing by me,
I became aware of the immense blue vault of the heavens.
Through the light of day, saw the hidden night,
With one star blazing brighter than all the others.

My feet were firm on solid ground,
Yet beneath them, I saw mountains biding their time,
Deserts flowering, and lights of cities not yet built all shining,
And the prophet, standing at my elbow, whispered,
‘Here is loveliness beyond all telling.’

Mid-winter, and the geese are sailing
In a long straight line down the river.
Their angry little eyes a snapping song of reluctant praise
To the love that made them.
And the prophet, standing at my elbow, whispered
Of the steadfast love and hope that lives in all creation.

                                                       © 2018 Gwen Grant


story image


Old Friends and new friends,
Lovers of the past and Lovers of the future,
Tellers of long stories and short ones,
Writers of diaries and letters,
These are the quiet narrators
Of those who share their journey. 

Every single one remembered
In one thankful dash of the pen.
Ready to catch them
On stone, papyrus or paper.
Ready to be passed on from one to the other .

There to live again, now and for ever,
At least, almost  for ever. 

                             © 2021 Gwen Grant.