There they are,
Sheaves of hay lying in the fields
Like golden Lovers,
Waiting for sunrise,
Waiting for the sun’s warmth
To cradle their tired heads.
Make soft shadows of eyelashes
Lying quiet against their faces. 

Don’t wake them,
Let them rest.
For over the thorn hedge
In the next field waiting,
Winter rests on its elbow,
Frosty fingers all set
To kill summer stone dead. 

Here comes the sun.
Time enough now to shake their shoulders
Before the frost gets close enough to touch them.  

Hold hands, Lovers. 
Hold hands and run.
                                                    © 2019 Gwen Grant


moonlight on trees


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


dangerous river

This poem is from a series of poems I wrote for the Southwell Minster (Southwell, Nottinghamshire, UK,) magazine.  As some were specifically meant for children, I invented a class of children with their imaginary teacher, Miss McPherson.  As I went from poem to poem, I got to know Miss McPherson and her children well and was very fond of them all.  It was good to read the responses from people of all ages who read these poems.  They were published in other magazines but I remain as attached to them now as I was when I  first wrote them.

             THE GLORY MARCH

‘Why did the chicken cross the road?’
Miss McPherson cried.
‘Why, children,’ she said, before we could speak,
‘It was to get to the other side.
Like Joshua crossing the Jordan River,
With his people, the Israelites.’
Then Miss McPherson told the story
Of Joshua and his march of glory.

‘Moonlight glittered on the tents of evening,
Its silver light all glittering and gleaming
Into the eyes of the people waiting
For Joshua to lead them across the Jordan,
Through the pearly dawn of an early morning.
In their tents, they all heard the roaring,
The rushing and the racing of the furious waters,
That made them afraid and set them awailing,
Wailing and weeping that the river would drown them.
But Joshua slept the whole of the night,
For he’d asked God to see them right.’

When Miss McPherson stopped for breath,
Harry put up his hand and said,
‘End of story.  That lot’s dead!’
But Miss McPherson shook her head.
‘Not so, Harry,’ she grinned and chortled.
‘Why, when Joshua reached the banks of the Jordan,
With the Israelites ranged all about and around him,
The water had gone!  Not a drop remaining!
God had emptied that river and stopped the water,
So that Joshua and his people could cross without danger,
To the rich green shores of the land of Canaan.’

We cheered!  We cried, ‘Well done, God!’ we clapped.
‘So, remember, children,’ Miss McPherson said,
You can cross any river you have to cross
When God is at your back.’
And Clyde muttered, ‘Yeah!  Right on!’

                                  © Gwen Grant