AUTUMN PARTY

Fairy lights
At the bottom of the garden
In the middle of Autumn.
The singer singing loud as he could
As he strummed a chord or two
On an old ukelele.
Bites of melody
Taken out of the food of music.

The once quiet neighbourhood exploded.
Dogs barking, windows opening,
Doors slamming.
Loud voices demanding to know
What was going on.

No answer there.
For no-one knew what had caused
This wayward racket.

Although the sheep in the paddock
Were so charmed,
They pushed and shoved
Against the old broken down fence
Until they were in the garden.
Eating roses, dandelions, sweet daisies and clover.

While the swifts and the swallows
Soared so high, they were splashed with stars.
Darting by the trees,
Flaring around the eaves,
The music brought memories of their homeland,
Filling their beautiful bodies
With sunshine and shadow.

Tiny dark rockets bringing hope and inspiration,
And us trying to keep them close for a little while longer.

                                       ©2022 Gwen Grant

  IN THE NIGHT

Love illuminates
The fretful darkness.
Gives words of hope
That fill themselves
With meaning.
Lights the stony path
To understanding,
Fills in the empty spaces
As we cross the bridge
To acceptance.

                    ©2020 Gwen Grant

THE SCULPTURE

Etiolated,
Arms and hands
Dropping down the body.
Long thin fingers
Scraping the stone
They were made of.

So thin,
Even if it had come to life,
It could never have walked.
Never have set its bony feet
On the dust beneath them.
Or balanced on toes
That needed
A much better covering.

Yet the whole of this sculpture,
Is presented as love.
Etiolated.
Emaciated,
Sliced to the bone,
With a face
Carved from suffering.

Still standing, though.
So maybe it is
A true likeness.

              ©2022 Gwen Grant