If only I could hear again, 
The whispering snow 
On candled window pane, 
Or see the glow of gas lamps lit 
To light the dark and silent street. 

If only I could hear again 
The milk cart rumbling, 
The milkman grumbling, 
Crates of bottles clinking, chinking, 
By doorsteps white with snow.

Hear again a door creak open, 
A voice quiet and softly murmuring 
To the milkman frostily crunching 
His bitter way down the icy morning.

If only I could see again 
Those lost now and gone. 
Touch the khaki greatcoat spread 
Across the cold and icy bed, 
Brass buttons winking and we remembering
Some once read stories of tired soldiers
On edgy watch for some gun glinting
Out in the wasteland darkness.

A thousand different greatcoats lying
Reckless in the frozen mud.

If only I could hear again
The crackle of the coal fire burning,
Quiet voices murmuring, teacups rattling,
The smile of one, the touch of another.
The warm hand pulling the covers back
That lie freezing on the frozen bed.

Wake up! Wake up!
The war is over.
Hold memory tight
For nothing will be the same again.

                                         ©2021 Gwen Grant.

If you wish to use any of my work, please contact me.


The dark red dahlias seem always to be the last flower to give in to the
onset of winter with their big shaggy heads, firm stems and dark strong
leaves, yet often when they have given up, one small daisy appears,
sometimes even with pink tingeing their tiny petals, as if in complete
defiance of the frost.


This garden is in retreat,
Dark red dahlias heralding the end.
Yesterday’s dreams already lying down
With their heads on the pillow. 

A hard frost killed the pale roses.

But this garden acknowledges no retreat,
Defiantly flowering one final daisy.
Today’s dreams already on their toes,
Waiting to get a move on. 

                        ©2019 Gwen Grant