baby bear


Ellie was poorly
This morning.
Her little face
Hot to the touch,
Her eyes barely able
To open,
Yet, still, when we left
She turned
To us,
And from deep within
Her small year and a bit body,
Conjured up a smile,
Her tiny hand
Waving goodbye
As we walked away,
Worry darkening
Our footsteps,
Love overwhelming us,
So that we couldn’t leave,
Had to go back and wait
Until she closed her eyes
And fell asleep.

            ©2021 Gwen Grant. 



 I live in an area that for hundreds of years was forest. Even as a child, I
remember woods and meadows unspoilt by factories and houses. I think
this little speedwell flower comes from the once lovely woods we used to
have, at least, the Speedwell that I’m writing about. I remember hearing
the name ‘Bird’s eyes’, when I was small and the thought of all the little
birds flying about without eyes made me cry! Our garden would have
been part of a forest floor a long time ago.


Bird’s eyes
In the garden,
Tiny blue flowers
Weaving over the grass
On stalks so thin,
They threaten
To break
At a harsh look

Don’t be fooled.
This delicate
Dot of blue
Will still be there
When everything else
Has gone.

Including me and you.

        ©2021 Gwen Grant.    




Tall and thin,
A long-legged, fast and skinny spider,
He was the best dancer in town,
Bar none.

Oh, fabulous dancer,
Burning up the dance floor
With magical steps and glory.
A whirlwind of grace
Caught in deep conversation
With drum and with tumbling piano.

No-one can reach him,
No-one touch him.
No, touch him not for he dances
Deep inside the music.
Where he and his collaborators
Join together in moving
The earth-bound dancer.

Play that piano, Sherlock.

Make music.
Let the great dancer dance,
That we may breathe the dust
Of his skinny spider beauty.

               ©2021 Gwen Grant.



As a writer, my whole life seems to have been dominated by the empty white page, empty being the
operative word!  Yet the one thing I love is an empty white page, all ready and waiting for me to fill it.
I have piles of notebooks which I choose for their paper.  Silky paper, so white, the pages border on a
faint lemon colour and when I write on them, the pen simply slides across the page.   The only snag is, I have five thick and beautiful notebooks I cherish but which are now so full, I am reduced to finding empty half pages or bits of corners if I want to write in them.  I bought these from Tesco years ago and have never found them again since.  Well, here’s wishing you the joy of pages of words, or scraps of paper covered in words or backs of envelopes full of hastily scrawled lines or anything else that will allow you to write on it!


I am sick of this page,
Staring at me in all its whiteness,
Never once blinking,
Never once having the courtesy
To fill itself with lines of writing.

                           © 2019 Gwen Grant


window light


My unknown friend
Kept her light on all night.

Unable to sleep,
I pace up and down
The long hall,
Watching the street
Through the window,
Feeling she is watching
With me.

Now she is gone,
Her room dark.
And I could not even salute
Her passing.

For we are a people
Set about by demons,
Busily securing
A place for us
In this terrible history
Of the world.

I miss my friend.

          © 2021 Gwen Grant.

All poetry on this blog is copyright. Anyone wishing to
use any piece of this work, please contact me for
permission to do so.