natural garden 4


Rare flowers
To another earth,
Wondering if they
Will ever put down roots.

New trees
Shedding leaves
As they left
Their bit of land.
Certain they would grow
Fine fruit
Given half a chance.

Flowers and trees,
Fruit and leaves
Enrich whole countries,
Make them
Even more beautiful.

Beauty on beauty.

          ©2021 Gwen Grant


rowan tree


There was nothing to be seen
Across the drenched grassy meadows,
Only a small circle of light
Shining through the heavy darkness.
The world was deserted and I on my own.

The wind was bitter, blowing
The outside lamp on the house
One way and another.
I could hear my footsteps
Splashing in the puddled water.

To my left, Hannibal’s elephants
Tramping over the Alps.
But it was probably the cows
Jostling each other in the barn
Or the sheep complaining.

To my right, the sudden beating of sails,
Almost certainly Captain Kidd,
Pirate extraordinary, shouting ‘Ahoy there!’
And ‘Avast thou scurvy knave!’
Or maybe it was just Joe,
Setting sail on his skinny canoe
Down the skinny river.
Nothing matters to him,
Only the water.

In front of me, a most beautiful pyramid
Sparkling in the close light
From the kitchen windows,
Flooding the tall chimney side of the house.
I reached the door of the Pharoah’s tomb
And hesitated.
Then the shadow of the Rowan tree,
The tree that defeated witches
Fell over me.

And I gave it all up.
Elephants, Alps, Pirate ships, Captain Kidd.
Overjoyed that what lay behind me,
Part of my cherished world,
Was a cold wet meadow of mud,
Restless cattle grumbling and sheep muttering.
A small lazy river with an old canoe
Banging and clattering.
Glad they were there.
Glad the tree that kept away witches and their spells
Was growing by the door,
Casting beautiful shadows.
                                               © 2021 Gwen Grant


cat hunting bird

It has been very cold here, lately, and the two cats that are around the fields and
the garden, one our marmalade cat and one his sworn enemy, the black cat, are
so lithe and graceful in their hunting, that I often stop to watch them. The black
cat is a stray which we feed and have put him a bed in the greenhouse.  Our cat
is so jealous, he will stand guard over the food put out for the black cat until he’s
called They both try hard but are never within sight of catching a bird. If our cat
brings in one of the little brown field mice, he always drops it and then, with it
being so small, we have to find it. Not easy.  The last one hid in the round opening
for the hoover hose and took us hours to find.   Let out into the garden, these tiny
mice vanish in an instant down the sides of the path where they all seem to live.


If you walk the long grass in the morning
When it’s white with frost
And grey with the visiting clouds,
You see the cats.
They stalk the robin and the doves
Come from a nearby garden.

Those snake quiet cats
Slither through their silent world,
To spring from the stickle grass
With a startling coloured grace.
Those cats!

They go hungry this morning
Because a thin black twig
Fell from a wintered tree,
Frightening the red chested robin
And the gentle doves,

And those quick cats,
Those early morning hunters,
Wailed their anger to the fading moon.
                                                  © 2018 Gwen Grant