Month: February 2022

CHANGE

CHANGE

Rock pools
Glittering in the sun,
Holding safe
Delicate little crabs,
Opalescent legs
Caught in thin strands
Of seaweed
Floating in ice-cold water.

Baby pink shells
Clicking against each other,
Waiting for the sea
To roll in,
Fling them to freedom.

To grow strong
In the crowded excitement
Of other waters.

                     ©2022 Gwen Grant

STARTING OVER

STARTING OVER

Late love,
With all its tenderness,
Turns us all
Into navigators,
Archaeologists,
Gently blowing the dust of years
From the site of yesterday.
Sometimes finding the splendours
Of Carter’s Tutankhamen,
Sometimes bringing to light
A tiny twist of yellow gold,
Its brightness hidden from invaders.

Cautious, careful,
We read books that tell us
How to discover each other.
One mystery sliding alongside another.
Two historians coming together,
Compiling a definitive account
Of their life and times.

You know what?
A hand reaching out for a hand,
A smile answering a smile
Breaks it all down
To where any Lover could build a castle,
Or a small shed if wanted,
With a water feature on the patio.
The oceans of the world
Lapping the edge of the garden.

                                  © 2019 Gwen Grant

LOOKING ACROSS THE TAY

We have a favourite place in Scotland that overlooks the River Tay, so
we often just sit there and watch the water.  The Tay is also known as
the ‘Silver’ Tay and it really does shine silver.  It’s a very beautiful river.

Behind where we sit, there is an Old People’s Care Home and the ladies
are often sat in their little conservatory.  Although they are old and
sometimes fragile, you can still see in them the lovely young women
they once were.
That they can see the Tay, too, must be a tremendous pleasure to them.

            LOOKING ACROSS THE TAY

The swans are out again,
Shimmering on the dark water,
Dipping into the splashes of moonlight
They become moonlight themselves,
Every feather sculpted in light.
Little white snowflake swans
Drifting down the silent river.

Behind us lies the Care Home,
Where glass walls welcome the lovely moon
And one lone bed
With a quilt as red as roses,
Lies empty in a corner.    

The old ladies who live there,
Watching the white and sparkling swans
Sailing on the glittering water,
Dreamily send their pretty, remembered bodies,
Down that golden moonlit path.
Frail little birds
Who soon overtake the swans.

This river and heaven
Must have a lot in common.              

©2017 Gwen Grant