The sun is pouring through the windows and has real warmth.
Other mornings bring the early fog which hangs about in the
gardens and fields. The best is when the winter frost makes the
world shine. I’m once again recovering from a virus and hoping
this sunshine will, finally, see me free and clear. Maybe even
a visit to Scotland?!

EARLY NOVEMBER MORNING

Ghosts in tall trees
Standing guard over the garden,
Flouncing into starry air
When the bus headlights
Disturb them.

Next door’s dog kicking up a fuss
Barking, yelping, yapping
At what it couldn’t see.
Feeling threatened
By invisible enemies.
Almost human, really.

Cat jumping the fence and vanishing,
Pushing wispy clouds before her lovely body,
Curling her tail around the uncommitted
Wisps and tendrils.
Drawing them in.

That’s the ghosts gone for sure.
Nobody likes to feel inferior.

©2025 GWEN GRANT

If you would like to use this poem, please get in touch.

  A SMALL MISUNDERSTANDING

This was the first prayer ever taught us,
Long before we could understand
Or be aware of our need for prayer.

Standing in ragged rows, eyes closed, we began,
‘Our Father, who art in heaven.’
But through a small misunderstanding
This became a little prayer for
‘Our Arthur, who art in Devon.’

Still, even not knowing Arthur,
We were happy that our prayer
Put that little intrepid wanderer
Into such safe and loving care.

                                               ©2018 Gwen Grant

 Where we lived when I was a girl, most of the gardens
around us were like my Dad’s. Full of vegetables, fruit,
flowers and hens. They were beautiful gardens and I
remember our garden with great fondness.

This poem has already been published but I’ve been thinking
about my family quite a lot lately, especially my Dad, so here is
a poem I wrote about him and his garden.  I only have to
picture the garden in my head and it’s there, always in sunshine and
with the hens darting about, hiding wherever they can.   Gardens 
are priceless for what they bring to us.

LITTLE BROWN HENS AND RED

My father’s garden was full of little brown hens
High stepping, tippy tapping in and out of the daffodils,
Pecking at the Spring mint, settling in the potato patch,
Always protesting, always complaining.
Not enough of this.  Too little of that.
The wicked tortoiseshell cat pinning them down
With eyes greener than the very grass they trod on.

They would crowd around the kitchen door,
Indignant little bodies demanding hen justice.
But they liked their bit of my father’s garden
With worms trying to live quietly beneath them.

Until my cousin came with his hard hands,
Hungry eyes and a heart intent on killing,
Then I went out shouting,
Scattering the little brown hens and the red,
Causing the dark cockerel
To turn his bitter, livid eye on my hateful presence.

Squawking, they fled, hiding under the hen coop.
Darting into the rhubarb leaves at the back of the tree.
But when my cousin kept coming, when his boots broke
The sunny daffodils, I pushed him so hard, he fell over,
I didn’t care about him.

For my little red hens and brown,
The arrogant cockerel with his angry eyes
All lived to tuck themselves up again
And sleep their tiny pulsing sleep.

To wake in the morning,
Ready for another really interesting day. 

                                          ©2020 Gwen Grant                        

I wrote this poem after taking a workshop with children
who were writing poems and stories about witches,
wizards and things-that-go bump-in-the-night.

I was surprised by how hard line the children’s views
were, not only on the use of magic powers, but
also on what the ordinary people living in tandem
with these often malevolent entities, did in response to
them.

The children were extremely hard line!

STORY TIME

Little children tell stories of things
They know by instinct.
Nothing shocks them.
They know wickedness and knowing it
Both makes and breaks its power.

Little children laugh at those
Who would deny witch and wizard.

In their stories, the poor man who steals the cows
Has good reason to be out in the dark night.
‘The man needs the cow,’ they reason,
‘Because he has no money
And his children will die without milk to feed them.’

Smiling,
They lock the old witch under the stairs.
She won’t see the light of day again.
But they allow her cow to burn the poor man’s fingers
And are glad that her punishing spells
Turn his eyes to mud.

© 2025 GWEN GRANT