SPRING

The wind is bustling around
the house tonight,
Sweeping away the little sparkling cobwebs
Clinging to the walls,
Whistling twigs down the guttering
So that some bird will have to start
Again in the Spring.

Then the snow came.

And the outside cat,
Who came out of nowhere,
Padded across the white grass,
Into the greenhouse,
For his portion of biscuits.

To curl up in the cardboard box
On the old cover set in a warm corner,
And dream of Spring,
When little fat birds would fall
Out of their windswept nests
Right in front of him.

                             ©2019 Gwen Grant

All work on this blog is in copyright.
If you want to use any of it, please get in touch.

                 FUTURE TENSE

The old girl lay sleepless in her bed,
Eyes staring through the dark,
Fretting at a future she couldn’t see,
Worrying at the hours and days and weeks
That lay before her.
Sleepless, she sighed again and again
‘If only I knew what the future will bring.’
Until the future, hiding behind the door,
Listening keenly, stepped in.

Picking up two particularly heavy days,
It smacked them round her head.
‘That’s one thing,’ it said.

 Then selecting an especially lovely
String of hours,
Gently laid them round her neck.
‘And that’s another,’ it said.
‘Now, before I go, is there anything else
You want to know?’

 ‘No,’ the old girl whispered, shaking her head,
Turning quick and over in her bed.
‘If it’s alright with you,
I’ll look at the stars instead.’

 ‘Good thinking,’ the future said.

                                                        © 2017 Gwen Grant

                WELCOME HOME

If only we could sing that song again,
The dispossessed said to their reflection.
You know, the one about a shed, a house, a home.
A shelter we could call our own,
A safe place to live in.
Though, obviously, that’s not happening.

Still, opening their mouths,
They began to sing with a bit of a quaver,
About a home.

Home!

That place where the poet said
They had to let you in.
‘Not in our experience,’ the refugees sighed.
Then fell silent, considering.
Which, frankly, didn’t change a thing
For there was only a handful listening.

Still they keep on singing.

                                                 ©2019 Gwen Grant

The dark red dahlias seem always to be the last flower to give in to the onset of winter with their big shaggy heads, firm stems and dark strong leaves, yet often when they have given up, one small daisy appears, sometimes even with pink tingeing their tiny petals, as if in complete defiance of the frost.

 YESTERDAY’S DREAMS

This garden is in retreat,
Dark red dahlias heralding the end.
Yesterday’s dreams already lying down
With their heads on the pillow. 

A hard frost killed the pale roses.

But this garden acknowledges no retreat,
Defiantly flowering one final daisy.
Today’s dreams already on their toes,
Waiting to get a move on. 

                        ©2019 Gwen Grant

Watching the sudden seagulls in the garden, I wondered what brought them here as we are miles from any seawater.  We have had  a lot of flooding water but they’re not interested in that.  Perhaps it seems a more sympathetic environment but I think if they stayed too long, the magpies would gang up on them.  A foggy, wet November afternoon with seagulls like snowflakes.

                                     ALWAYS OUT THERE

Those seagulls in our garden
Are a long way from water.
Doing what we all do, I suppose,
Looking for a future
Just a little bit better.

                               © 2019 Gwen Grant