STARTING OVER

Late love,
With all its tenderness,
Turns us all
Into navigators,
Archaeologists,
Gently blowing the dust of years
From the site of yesterday.
Sometimes finding the splendours
Of Carter’s Tutankhamen,
Sometimes bringing to light
A tiny twist of yellow gold,
Its brightness hidden from invaders.

Cautious, careful,
We read books that tell us
How to discover each other.
One mystery sliding alongside another.
Two historians coming together,
Compiling a definitive account
Of their life and times.

You know what?
A hand reaching out for a hand,
A smile answering a smile
Breaks it all down
To where any Lover could build a castle,
Or a small shed if wanted,
With a water feature on the patio.
The oceans of the world
Lapping the edge of the garden.

                                  © 2019 Gwen Grant

BLUEBELLS

Out of the dirt,
Two flowers
Pushed for life. 

Green stems,
Green leaves,
Delicate blue bells
Shaking in the wind. 

Aristocrats.
Rising above every situation
That would bring them down. 

          ©2021  Gwen Grant.

HOUSE OF GHOSTS

Lying in this old house,
Floorboards creaking
Even when the room is empty,
I am a stranger
Standing in strange moonlight
Pouring through the big old windows
Whose thin glass
Distorts the centuries.

I am certain ghosts live here.
At home in dark corners,
Curled up in sly cupboards.

This house is a city
Of stone and brick and oak.
Doors big as cathedrals,
Rooms long enough
To fade at the edges.

If only I could climb
Up the vast chimney.
Escape into the woods
Alive with bird song.

I’ll keep quiet about the pale ladies
Parading up and down the staircase,
Shimmering in their lovely dresses.
Not so lovely when they catch sight
Of anyone living.

Then they scowl until their skulls crack open.

©2022 Gwen Grant.

 
NIGHT HOURS

Closing on midnight,
With the great starry fields
Lying still and quiet in front of me,
Moonlight falling like water
On the silent trees, the dark furrows,
The creaking ice puddles shining,
Holding stars in their frozen silver,
I see the first ghosts
Of those I have known
Drift across the white horizon,
Mist folding them into sparkling shadows
Slipping through my fingers
When I reach out to touch them,
Take them home.

They don’t go far but wait for me,
Blowing the years in front of them,
Opening this corner and that
To let me see again,
All those I have loved.
All those I love still.

Until the snow finally hides them
And I turn for home,
The trees shivering in sympathy,
Anointing my lonely head
With cold tears of their own.

                          ©2020 Gwen Grant

When I was a girl, the winters were ferocious.  The street I lived in was a
small street with no more than about a half dozen houses down each side. 
Every house, or so it seemed to me, had a polished table in their front
room and over that table was a chenille cloth.  Our cloth was red with
bobbles hanging all round it.  I only have to close my eyes to remember
the thick rich feel of that cloth and I don’t have to do anything to
remember my sister.

SPRING TO WINTER

              The world goes round in tight circles
              As I have always known it would.
              Its intention always to go
              From Spring to Winter
              In one breath.

              When I was first tall enough
              To see over the table top,
              The bobbled red chenille cloth
              Cherried in my fingers,
               I learnt then of dying,
              For in my house that winter
              Our Spring baby died.

             That snow pulsed afternoon,
             The old scissor-grinder, out-lighted,
             Stood under the gas lamp
             Stoning blades of knife and scythe and scissor,
             Sparks spinning from his wheel
             As if that winter day was Carnival.

             I ran from him,
            Snowflakes melting my eyes
            As I wept for my sister,
            Suddenly afraid of the scythe
            And afraid of the scissor.

                              ©2018 Gwen Grant