A MINUTE AFTER MIDNIGHT

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  A MINUTE AFTER MIDNIGHT

The world is dressing already
For a day of loveliness.

New dreams poised to take over
From all the old dreams
Frayed at the edges.

Hope patching the tattered pieces
Until you can’t even see the join.

                       © 2020 Gwen Grant

THE CORNFIELDS AT PRAYER

From my bedroom window, I can see stretches of corn fields and walking on the paths alongside these fields, I can always hear the corn fields whispering.  These whispers sound so private and yet because the sound fills the air, they also seem meant for everyone who is there to listen.

That particular night, which was cool and quiet, leaning on the windowsill, with the yellow moon picking up the gold of the corn, took me back to when I was a girl, helping with the harvest, remembering how those thin golden spears prickled when they came into contact with skin. There was an enchantment there then and it’s still there now.

As I stood there, I thought of cornfields and other fields of grain growing all over the world and it seemed to me that these fields with their precious harvests were as involved with the world as we are.  If that was the case, then, for the first time, I knew that the corn was whispering its love and hope and concern for the world, exactly as we do ourselves.

      THE CORNFIELDS AT PRAYER

So the long cool night begins
And through the quiet darkness
I thought I heard the corn stalks talk
Of all the whispered night-time prayers
Drifting over the fields,
Setting the corn to its own prayer whispering.

Then I heard the corn stalks talk
Of all the little living prayers.
The lovely hares leaping
And the small creatures seeking
The bread of life in the earth beneath them,
And quiet lovers walking the poppied grasses,
Breathing promises and prayers
Into the listening darkness.

I know I heard the corn stalks talk
Of the old traditions of hay-making and stooking,
Of sowing and reaping,
Of the laughter of bare armed innocents driven 
to distraction
By those thin shining spears prickling and stippling,
Until they almost longed to leave
The praying cornfields whispering.

I expect, though, that the corn stalks talk
Of different things
On the bleak plains of grief, for instance,
Or on the long shades of despair,
Taking for their own the bone bare prayer
Of the suffering heart bleeding into the suffering air.
All is loss and lamentation,
Until they sing of a strong and eternal love
That is forever sowing and forever reaping
Love at the beginning and love at the ending.
So the prayers of the world are heard
In the whispering cornfields prayer.

© 2018 Gwen Grant

BUT THERE’S HOPE…….

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BUT THERE’S HOPE…….

We thought that we were stronger far
Than Old Man Time.
That hand-in-hand we could out-dance
The Lady of the Hours.
That every moment was forever
At our beck and call,
And we would be always young and lovely
As the Spring-time flowers.

We half understood when this one
Turned their face unto the wall,
When that one couldn’t get
A second breath.
But we were slow to understand
That Time is iron,
In its iron will to bring about
Our iron deaths.

Yet when all is said and done and told,
We ever understood that love turned
Iron into gold.


                               © 2017 Gwen Grant

IT WASN’T THE HAPPIEST TIME

IT WASN’T THE HAPPIEST TIME

Walking out,
It was that kind of miserable,
Sulking winter,
With bitter stars
Barely bothering
To hunch their shoulders,
Or tuck themselves into the greyness,
Pulling clouds over their heads,
Thinking good riddance
To the sorry world below them.

Until, as if joyfully
Adding insult to injury,
A skim of sleet
Left the hand of misery,
Whitened the freezing leaves
Of the hedgerows,
Soaking the knitted cuffs
Of my bright red jumper.

    Nature’s fierce laughter
    Sending me home frozen.

             ©2022 Gwen Grant.

MARCH MORNING

MARCH MORNING

Sunshine
Threading through the garden,
Touching the first daisies,
Shining on the magpies,
Turning the water
In the old zinc bowl
Into shards
Of brilliant light.

Staying just out of reach
Of the cat’s lazy paw,
Until it pounces.

Catching the sun
In its sharp white claws.

The garden breathes out.

©2022 Gwen Grant