I was cheered by the sight of rhododendrons full of tight buds, reminding me that, although
it’s still a long way away, Spring will come, the buds will open and their glorious flowers
shine out. Warmth and colour be in the world again.
HOPE IN TRAINING
Those tight little buds are waiting
For next Spring.
There’s no sign of hurry,
No hint of impatience.
In fact, just looking at them
Reveals an alternative world
To the one we live in.
©2021 Gwen Grant
When I was a girl, I was sent away to Kent, to a kind of hospital
school to make me better. I was only there a year yet that year has given
me memories for a lifetime, good and bad. The Kentish woods helped me
settle because they formed a link to my much loved woods of home.
FALLING STARS
I walked the spine of morning
Whilst the birds slept.
Their little feathered bodies
Absorbing the melody of leaves,
The quiet breathing of grass,
Waking to the delicate sounds of light changing,
Their tiny anthems gathering strength
Enough to fill the woods with song.
Drowning these cool Kentish pathways
With joy and praise.
Where, last night, a falling star
Tumbled through the trembling leaves
Shoring up this world’s quiet beauty.
I saw it fall.
The little wren and the robin at my shoulder,
The nightingale singing into the morning light.
Our eyes clinging to the long radiance
Of Jupiter and Mars shining briefly
Onto that star ridden path.
Setting that quiet Kentish wood ablaze
With the glory of falling stars,
Of little birds singing.
© 2020 Gwen Grant
I like to hear the sound of our clock in the night. It’s a great comfort when you can’t
sleep to hear the unconcerned ticking. There used to be a brilliant clock in Dundee
which had, I think, nursery rhyme characters that came out and performed on each
chime. We would go and watch it until the hours made us move on. I haven’t seen or
heard this particular clock in years but it was so colourful and friendly. We collected
clocks once and they still live all over the house, some still ticking, some chiming,
some cherished.
THE PALE ROAD
The house is quiet, silent,
Except for the ticking of the big clock
At the bottom of the stairs,
Whose chimes keep company
With those who cannot sleep.
Just before dawn,
A thin moon slides in through the window
And in a moment those awake
Walk the pale road of remembrance,
Of longing, until the past
Becomes the pale road of prayer.
Let the clock chime again,
That the past may be left behind,
The moon soothe the restless heart,
The whispered words bring peace.
©2021 Gwen Grant.
Available on Amazon Kindle and Draft2Digital e-books.
I wrote this poem for the MacMillan book of MONSTER POEMS chosen
by Brian Moses, and chose it to put up thinking it might be enjoyed as
a bit of light relief, unless, of course, you do have a monster at the bottom
of your garden!
The worst monster in the world lives at the bottom of my garden.
She lives in the bushes just past the apple tree|
And never comes out unless she’s wearing her frock of old shadows
Patched with bits of night.
Plus, a little bright ribbon in her hair.
I can always see her ribbon, like eyes, really, shining in the dark.
‘You can’t be scared of a monster who wears a ribbon,’ people laugh.
‘Oh, can’t you!’ I say.
‘You should be here when she creeps into the house and lies in wait
on the stairs.
Or when she sidles into my room and hides under the bed.
I bet you’d be scared!’
I can handle that.
Well, most of the time, I can, but maybe not at midnight when the church clock
Chimes twelve times,
Calling out witches and wizards, floaty ghosts and hungry monsters
Who tap you on the shoulder and breathe down the back of your neck.
Yet, none of them are as scary as my monster,
Who wears a ribbon in her hair and hides at the bottom of the garden,
Waiting to get me.
The worst time, the scariest time,
Is not when she’s hiding in the bushes just past the apple tree.
It’s when she stands up and without taking one foot off the ground,
Catches the moon in her dark mouth and swallows it!
Then, I can’t see anything,
Not even her ribbon,
And I am more afraid than ever.
(c) 2005 Gwen Grant
After a journey over the Derbyshire hills when Winter itself seemed to take shape and form, this was how I remembered it. A place of utter beauty and totally unforgiving. It was so enchanting, even though we had to drive really slowly to avoid skidding, I couldn’t take my eyes off the world around me.
A DERBYSHIRE WINTER
Yesterday, we met that great icicled old man, Winter,
Striding across the tops of the Derbyshire peaks,
Flinging furious fists of snow on to the roads,
Stones, dips, hollows and hedgerows.
The hills and fields were bone white,
And white to the bone where he had passed.
Even the bleak and edgy rocks had given in,
Hiding their lovely blackness
Out of sight of the old man’s fury.
For who knew what he would do next?
Too late! He’s done it.
That tree standing alone in the emptiness
Should have shown a bit more respect.
Bowed its aching head
Under the snowy crown he had given it,
But somehow it shook the snow off instead.
And that great icicled old man spat spiteful
Gobbets of icy breath across it
Until, for one brief and beautiful moment,
The tree shone and dazzled in the thin sun,
Then broke under the old terror’s icy gift and was gone.
Oh, winter, you could have pity on us.
You could pity the owl and the crow,
The mouse, the fox, the shrew and the stoat.
You could pity the glancing beauty of the dying fish
Striking up through the frozen water.
But you won’t, will you?
Even though you could afford to.
For such splendour and icy glory,
So enchanting it catches the breath
And causes the heart to fall back,
Will never willingly leave these peaks
To the wind and rumpled grass.
© 2018 Gwen Grant
To Sam, the fox is the enemy – it steals his hens.
To Roberta, it is a beautiful wild creature in need of protection.
The mystery of a stolen tiara brings the two children and the
fox together in a strange sequence of events. A country setting
and fascinating glimpse into the ways of foxes.
Available on KINDLE and DRAFT2DIGITAL.
Poems by Gwen Grant 