Summer bug flattened me! Here’s how I feel now!


Whirling in a jewel box
Feel no more at home
Than we do,
In this jewel box of a world.

But we dance
To a different tune to them.
We dance
To melodies that are beaten
Into the earth.
To rhythms
That nourish coloured leaves
And unveil flowers
Scenting the air around us.

Jerk their little limbs
As they are ordered.
But denying bullet and bomb
Whatever victory they are seeking,
We dance,
Moving in the warmth and strength
Of an all absorbing love.

                          ©2018 Gwen Grant



 Early in the morning
When the mist comes rolling in from the fields,
And the queer little ghosties
Come riding and writhing within it,
Sometimes leaping the battered old fence,
Other times sneaking through the holes
In the lacy broken wood,
Crossing the garden like smoke,
Coming to rest under the apple tree,
It is then I see their long grey fingers
Reaching through the leaves,
Winding around the shining apples
As if to pluck them from the branch and eat them,
And by eating, gain life.

But then the Autumn sun slides
Into the garden behind them,
Patting the twinkling shadows
Into tiny shapes of apple and leaf,
Weaving the winking apples into its sunny fingers,
Swallowing the mist and the little creeping ghosties,
Dusting those green, green apples with a flush of rosiness.

Neither pen, nor film, nor brush, nor quill
Can catch their utter loveliness.
No, all that can be done
Is to pick and hold and taste their glory,
Whilst the birds, the goats,
And the horse in the paddock
Who leans its head over the dead Philadelphus,
Over the tiny ghosties hiding in the dying flowers,
All hold back to await another apple morning.

                                                              © 2018 Gwen Grant




All the quiet hours
Have slipped away,
The laughing and the weeping
Whirled into nothingness,
But love remains,
Burning with the desire
To create a new reality.

We can change nothing that has gone,
Yet as unblemished time
Stretches out before us,
We are impatient,
Longing to tumble down
Those promised days.
Hold the hours together,
Holding on for each other,
Bringing hope,
Bringing love that changes everything.

                                ©2018 Gwen Grant



There is a delicacy about a life
Grounded in love.
A strength of sweetness
That in its sunny passion
Adds up to more than the sum of its parts.

More than hope,
More than peace,
More than all the other lovely verities
Love holds close within it.

For it is a generosity of spirit
Upon which all love is founded,
Revealing itself in a precise and passionate
Understanding of helpless need.

Always ready to dance,
Always ready to share in joy,
Always and forever reaching out a hand,
Holding on as long as needed.

                                     ©2017 Gwen Grant


When I was a child, I was sent away for a year for my health.
Everything there was the exact opposite to my home.  No
bright colours as at home and, of course, with so many
children to care for, instead of love, there was an impartial
interest and care.  There are many times we would not go
back to and this was one of them.


Last night,
The apple tree turned white,
Its wide skirts trembling
As if some fabulous ballerina
Was dancing over the grass.

For a moment,
I was taken back
To my childhood.
Looking at an apple tree
Through a window,
Where my finger nail
Scraped long strands of frost.

Before the next winter’s frost,
I was a long way from home.

A long way from love and colour,
Close to dark uniforms,
To squares of aprons
Crackling in snowy starchiness.
White caps like fearful torches
Breaking the dusky violet night,
Making me weep for home.

Now making me glad that none of us

Can inhabit the past.

©2019 Gwen Grant