Author: gwengrant

Growing older and having survived cancer at 40, a long time ago, certainly focuses the mind on the future and I was very aware of this when I wrote the poem FUTURE TENSE. I've always loved writing and still remember the excitement of the first longer piece of work I did. It was very experimental and I was certain it wouldn't get published. It probably wouldn't have but one of the small magazines, who did such great work for new writers, took that piece and many others. But that wasn't all they did. With infinite kindness, they often pointed out where I could improve my writing. My first book was a picture book, MATTHEW AND HIS MAGIC KITE, but after that, I started wanting to capture the humour and interest of where I lived, so PRIVATE-KEEP OUT came next followed by KNOCK AND WAIT and ONE WAY ONLY. They're not biographies because all I wanted to do was to catch the spirit of those times. It would be good if everyone wrote an account of their lives so their times are not lost. So many valuable histories unwritten and unread. When I was a girl, I loved the American writer, BETTY MACDONALD, with her very funny accounts of her family and her life in the 1940's. But NORMAN MAILER's, 'THE NAKED AND THE DEAD' spun me up to the stars when I stumbled across it in the subscription library I belonged to at fifteen. ERNEST HEMINGWAY's 'CHRISTMAS IN PARIS 1923', was so sublime and beautiful it was like a torch for writers and the Toronto Star Weekly must have published it with joy in their hearts. I wonder if there still is a Toronto Star Weekly?

OUR CAT

Our cat was seventeen years old. He was sweet natured and never
bit and only used his claws in extremis. He was our grand-daughter’s
cat but along the way of her moving houses, he came to stay with us for a bit and
never left. He died last year and it’s only now I’ve felt able to write about
him. I miss him. He loved his two knitted shawls.

OUR CAT

We laid him to rest
Next to the fence,
Close to the daffodils.

Brushing the dead leaves
From where we were to lay him.
Carefully placing his bright shawls
Underneath and around him.

Where the snowdrops flowered
To light the way for him.

A fit resting place for a conqueror to lie,
To listen to eternity whistling.

SHADOW WITCHES

Van Gogh

SHADOW WITCHES

A cold, calm evening,
With the last of the Autumn leaves
Pillowing the feet
Of the Philadelphus.

Moonlight
Touching the dark corner by the shed
Where shadow witches gather.
Piling their long skirts into folds
Of rustling darkness.

Shaking the cat out onto the garden path,
Calling for their lost Lovers
To come back, return,
For passion makes all things young.

The Lover came,
His serious, watchful eyes
Full of tenderness.
The sweet ferocity of love
Already burning.
Making him shake.
Setting his hands trembling with desire.

Passion igniting the flame
That burns old Lovers into new life.
Allow them to practise their mischief
All over again.

FROSTY MORNING

Wherever we have lived, there always seems to have been
someone getting their car, van, lorry, bus/horse and cart out
around five in the morning to get to work. Many a time it has
been us and when it had snowed or was frosty, we dreaded that
motorway.

FROSTY MORNING

Five in the morning
As someone starts their day,
Set for a work bound journey
Down the waiting motorway.

Tapping the sleeping houses
With a tiny burst of sound,
Their red brake light a scarlet flower
Upon the frosty ground.

In one of those dark windows,
A watcher stands alone.
Wishing they could go down that road
And never come back home.

WASH DAY

WASH DAY

Robin
On the clothes pole,
White sheets blowing
On the line.
Until the old wood breaks,
Tumbling to the grass
In pieces.
Flicking the little bird
Into the waiting hedge.
Its tiny redness
Glowing against the green.

Sending the sparrows
Living quietly,
Fluttering, yelling alarm.
Those robins!
We always knew this would happen.

The cat crouched crossly
On the edge
Of the sudden whiteness.
Wishing it had something
To bite.
To tear apart.
Flexing its claws at the blameless robins.
Itching to kill the harmless sparrows.

Between them,
Turning the quiet garden
Into scary disorder,
Frightening chaos.

All that was missing
Were placards
Denouncing the wind.

And what does the wind care.

LITTLE LEMON FACES

The last time we were in Cornwall, we walked along a cliff
top full of daffodils. The ones I bought from the shop are
from Cornwall and remind me of that beautiful afternoon,
with the sound of the sea and the sunshine. They’ve
certainly cheered up a cold and dark day.

LITTLE LEMON FACES

Sunshine spilling
Over the table,
Cornish daffodils
Washing their little lemon faces
In the light.

A long way from home,
They bring with them still,
The sound of the sea.

To drown out
The pitter-patter
Of sulky raindrops
Soaking a dark land.

	Grammy Writes on OUR CAT
	gwengrant on TREE IN WINTER
	gwengrant on OUR CAT
	camilla wells paynte… on OUR CAT
	Liz on OUR CAT