Some years ago, I wrote a Christmas Play. One of the parts was
taken by my good friend, Irene, who had a wonderful singing
voice, so that when she sang, there was breathless silence.
This is the poem I wrote about Irene and her Christmas carol.


Our choir is so good
Angels come down to listen to them.
Those angels think I can’t see them,
But I see them,
Dancing on the head of a pin,
Lolling on the piano,
Or perching poker-backed on the tops of chairs
Where people are already sat listening.
They are very fond of songs where angels appear
And especially liked it that time
When Irene sang her solo,
‘Angels from the realms of glory.’
The angels liked that so much
The tips of their wings were quivering.
But when our choir sings about the Lord,
Those angels join in.
They think I can’t hear them,
But I hear them.
‘O Lord my God,’ our choir sings,
And the angels singing with them kneel down,
Their wings all spread around the singers as they sing,
Together filling this whole place with such tenderness
I bow my head and cannot look at them again
Until the singing ends.
The angels have all gone home by then.
‘Gloria in excelsis Deo!’  AMEN.

                                     © 2008 Gwen Grant

Thank you for the support whilst I was unwell. Much appreciated.
I’m slowly coming back.


The road was a long one,
Full of pot holes and standing water,
Gravel crunching beneath my feet,
The grass verges soaked with rain.
Dandelions, cowslips and late flowering daffodil
Keeping their own counsel.

The old house that had been falling down
For years, had been repaired.
New doors and windows refusing to allow
The driving rain entry to ruin
Sweet smelling wood.

Once, here were fields of carrot and potato,
Beetroot and onion, sweetcorn and pick-your-own

The rain now so heavy, it sent me
Running to the shelter of an old tree
Whose canopy of leaves was as fresh and green
As it had always been.

I stood in a silent corner, looking at the set aside field
Of raw earth, stones and sullen weeds,
Waiting for the earth god to wake up,
Leap up and spring into the open,
Grass and earth and worms and wood beetles
Falling from his brown shoulders, towering into the sky,
Reaching out his long arms to tear down the rain clouds,
Chase away the sun hiding from his anger,
Grabbing handfuls of planets and glimmering stars.
Searching for a new home.

It was cold in the wood but I waited
Until all the stars and planets lay weeping on the grass.
Watched as rain became tears the earth god wept,
Flinched as he roared his anger, sending flood and fire
At the careless desecration of his home.

©2021 Gwen Grant