Month: November 2025

NO-ONE VISITS US, ANYMORE.

NO-ONE VISITS US, ANYMORE.

I expect Aliens already know how to fly,
That this is how they will come to our attention.
Just drifting out of the sky
Along with the falling leaves,
Transfixed by horror
At what we have allowed to happen.

Well, I guess they probably
Have the same feelings we do,
In which case, horror
Is the only possible response
To the hate shown in the world.

Maybe they won’t stay.
Unable to embrace a people
Who have so harshly destroyed
The earth, the sky, the air, the seas.
All the lovely things they were given.

Maybe nothing would persuade them to stay
And they would drift away
Exactly how they came.

Not wanting to be associated 
With the shame of so much killing.

© 2021 GWEN GRANT

LINCOLN ROSES

Lincoln Cathedral was D.H. Lawrence’s favourite
cathedral. Mine, too. Even standing in the doorway and
looking down the long grey reaches into the Cathedral
proper, you know instantly that this glorious building,
this hymn of praise to Love, is going to capture your |
heart, not just for now but for ever. Not so easy to get
to anymore but closing the eyes will do it.

          LINCOLN ROSES

That day in Lincoln Cathedral,
The scent of roses in the air so strong,
I thought there must be some pretty dame
With high heels and posh perfume around.
But there was no-one,
Only me and Love and the great circular window
Full of coloured glass, glinting down at us. 

It was all so stern, so forbidding,
So unbending with the grey stone,
The slabs of walls and hard stone benches,
The weary pavements where thousand year old
Shadows of monks still lapped
Remorselessly up and down. 

This house is grey, great slabs of greyness,
With great roofs pressing down
Even as they soared into emptiness,
Undercutting the power structure of witless men
Determined to impress Love,
Maybe, with a small nudge to eternity,
Secure a place on that heavenly panel. 

Here some warning hand has put an Imp,
But no number of Imps or poker-faced priests,
Or high-hatted, rich robed fleshy monuments to the past
Can distract us from the petal of a fallen flower
Lying scarlet on the stone cold floor,
Pulsing with a life far beyond us.  

Love steadies the candle flames
Of small lanterns shining through the hazy darkness
Of a great Cathedral.
Illuminating that which cannot be seen,
Giving glory to that which cannot be touched,
The unspoken harmony of prayer
Enfolding us and Love. 

                                               © 2019/2025 GWEN GRANT

If you would like to use my poem, please get in touch.

KEEP AWAY FROM THE WATER

We were staying at a small hotel in the far north, as near
to the harbour as we could get, and it was freezing cold.
This was a cold I’d never felt anywhere but here but the
Pub was as warm as you could ever want. The people were
warm and friendly, as well. When the night was finally over ,
we had this lovely ending which I often think about and which
makes me smile.

KEEP AWAY FROM THE WATER

There is no scent of roses here
As there was in that quiet Cathedral.
No flowers at all.
Only the drunks hiccupping home, singing,
Keeping well away from the grey and hungry water
Hissing right up to the sea wall,
All frosted and glittering.

Bitter sleet whipping their cold faces,
Whitening their hair,
Whitening the streets around them,
As if spitefully denying any hope
Of warmth and peace to come.

For these men and women staggering
Down the frozen pavements,
Are reluctant to go home.
Reluctant to leave the world behind them.
Boozily loving each other,
Wanting to sing as loud as they can.

Singing without thinking,
Knowing the words of songs learnt in childhood,
Knowing that drunk or sober,
Life is for the living.

Just keep away from the water.

©2021 Gwen Grant

EARLY NOVEMBER MORNING

The sun is pouring through the windows and has real warmth.
Other mornings bring the early fog which hangs about in the
gardens and fields. The best is when the winter frost makes the
world shine. I’m once again recovering from a virus and hoping
this sunshine will, finally, see me free and clear. Maybe even
a visit to Scotland?!


EARLY NOVEMBER MORNING

Ghosts in tall trees
Standing guard over the garden,
Flouncing into starry air
When the bus headlights
Disturb them.

Next door’s dog kicking up a fuss
Barking, yelping, yapping
At what it couldn’t see.
Feeling threatened
By invisible enemies.
Almost human, really.

Cat jumping the fence and vanishing,
Pushing wispy clouds before her lovely body,
Curling her tail around the uncommitted
Wisps and tendrils.
Drawing them in.

That’s the ghosts gone for sure.
Nobody likes to feel inferior.

©2025 GWEN GRANT

If you would like to use this poem, please get in touch.