Christmas Poem 2.

I wrote this about a shed in a long ago garden, which prompted a short story and also this poem.     

     A COLD CHRISTMAS

A thin, fine, dusting of frost glitters
On the dark roof of the shed
Standing at the end of the cold garden,
Ragged green and silvered weeds
Pressing around the empty doorway,
As if peering in at something
That might be happening
Inside that freezing emptiness,
Waiting for a blaze of warmth and light
To fill the empty bitterness.
Well, that miracle happened once
On a dark and freezing night.

Now, thorn red berries tipped with frosty crowns
Gather as quietly as a whispered warning,
Resting their icy faces
Against the cracked and frozen windows
Of a place cold enough to perish in.

There was no glamour then and there’s none now.
No twinkling tinsel, no soft lights glowing.
Just a woman’s baby lying in a manger,
The ox bringing a bit of warmth to the deadly coldness,
The donkey adding a little more,
Its long ears twitching at the patient man,
At the watchful woman waiting,
At the shepherds worshipping
This holy baby bathed in lamp light,
Moon light and love’s pure light.

Until that other freezing night
When three Kings came riding
To this icy, bitter shed.
Bringing their fabulous gifts,
Their aristocratic knees bending
To the little holy King,
Who already had a thorn red frosted crown
Waiting for His head.       

                              © Gwen Grant

Christmas Poem No.1.Christmas Poem No. 2. tomorrow.
Some years ago, I wrote a Christmas Play. One of the parts was taken by my good friend, Irene, who had a wonderful singing voice, so that when she sang, there was breathless silence. This is the poem I wrote about Irene and her Christmas carol.

WHEN IRENE SANG HER SOLO    

Our choir is so good
Angels come down to listen to them.
Those angels think I can’t see them,
But I see them,
Dancing on the head of a pin,
Lolling on the piano,
Or perching poker-backed on the tops of chairs
Where people are already sat listening.
They are very fond of songs where angels appear
And especially liked it that time
When Irene sang her solo,
‘Angels from the realms of glory.’
The angels liked that so much
The tips of their wings were quivering.
But when our choir sings about the Lord,
Those angels join in.
They think I can’t hear them,
But I hear them.
‘O Lord my God,’ our choir sings,
And the angels singing with them kneel down,
Their wings all spread around the singers as they sing,
Together filling this whole place with such tenderness
I bow my head and cannot look at them again
Until the singing ends.
The angels have all gone home by then.
‘Gloria in excelsis Deo!’  AMEN.                                                                                                          
©Gwen Grant

         LISTEN TO THE SILENCE

Quiet as a dove’s eye
Shining in the dark,
Love slipped into their lives,
Pushing aside darkness,
Bringing light blazing
Into uncertain corners,
Demolishing sadness.

This was the night
Stars exploded
Into clean, bright, radiant roses
Of hope and joy.
Whose petals fell silently,
Tenderly,into the desert
Of their lost and aching hearts.

Time for them to change direction,
Time to listen to the silence.
                                © Gwen Grant

                   MIDNIGHT WALK

      Walking through the dark trees,
      My steps sending little puffs of dust
      Over the small curling ferns crouching.
     The faint shine of a white petal
     Breaks through the intense darkness,
     Until a sudden throw of moonlight
     Brings the pale anemones,
     The golden celandine,
     Into perfect life on the woodland floor.

     I hear the soft shuffling of birds in their nests,
     Heads tucked under their wings,
     Deeply sleeping.
     Then the tiny bubbling of water running
     Down the little, half-hidden stream,
     Throwing the odd diamond drop
     Onto the yellow primrose.

     Here, small brown creatures
     Slip in and out of the freezing water,
     Icy, from the still snow laden hills so faraway
     This wood never thinks of them.
     Nor do we, until, we, too, are frozen.

     Out of the trees, onto the edge of the fields
     That stretch into the darkness,
     The small growings rustling an excited invitation
     To walk the night
     Over ploughed earth and stony frost sparkling
     To the far wood, which magic is held to own.
     But I turn back, not ready to meet a veiled magician
     Of spite, dead things and stagnant water.
     And the trees swallow me
     As a shadow is swallowed by darkness.

     Now the wood shakes itself,
     The trees whispering of this returned presence
    Walking their quiet and mossy paths.
     And I turn for home,
     To the lovely fragrance of wild roses
     In the hedgerows.

                                    © Gwen Grant