First day of the New Year and here’s wishing everyone
peace and tranquillity.

UP TOWN ON A SATURDAY MORNING

This morning,
When the old ladies
Wearing their duvet
And bad attitudes
Banged their walking sticks
On the hard pavements,
Complaining about the cold,

The old men
Fastened up their jackets
Trying to work out
How they had got so old
Without anyone warning them.
Every now and again
Hustling into the Bookies
To place a Bet
That, ten-to-one, would win them
Enough to buy back
Their days of being young
And meaning something
In the world again.

Well, this was when
That lad and his lass
Began to sing,
Coins rattling
Into their empty money hat
Lying on the cold ground
In front of them.

Enough to buy them hot coffee,
A slice of warm pizza
And a bit of encouragement
To keep going, anyway,
Until they were well past
Any danger of growing old
With lined and cheery faces.
Or not.

For ‘old’ was a word not in their lexicon
And they had no intention
Of it ever claiming their attention.

As if!    Eh?!!  As if!

I don’t think so!

                     ©2023 Gwen Grant

The three kings are already making their way to Bethlehem but when I
wrote this poem, just as now, all over the world there were plenty of people making
their way to where they were needed, carrying with them not gifts of
gold, frankincense and myrrh but gifts that eased pain and distress. So
it’s these visitors travelling to those who waited for them that this poem
celebrates.

                          WINTER IS COMING 

Winter is coming, circling around the house and garden
The grass already white over,
The last of the dahlias bending their heads to the cold.
Over the hedge, a fierce, clear brilliance sets everything sparkling.
Even the big tree, all leaves lost, stands white and starry.
Somewhere, over the fields, a fox barks,
Sending the plump little pheasants huddling deeper into cover. 

Darkness down the quiet street,
Split now by a square of yellow light flaring in an anxious window.
Not long after, the long car of a night Doctor pulls up silently.
A brisk tap tap of sharp heels urgent to the waiting door wide open,
Makes the sleeping houses quiver.
All those still awake, sinking deeper into their restless pillows,
Pulling the covers over their heads. 

Slowly, the moonlight drifts across the garden,
Lovely shards of icy silver picking out the stray black cat,
Courageous as any Roman conqueror,
Shadowing the grass with his magnificent presence. 

Then the creak of an old bench, as someone, out there in the darkness,
Newly bereft and soundlessly weeping clutches at the solid wood.
Praying its solidity will lend itself to their splintered grief
In this new world they are suddenly lost in.
This is the way it is, when winter is circling around the house and garden,
And people are lying in their beds, thinking. 

                                                                                              ©2018 Gwen Grant

Long listed – Carnegie Medal.
Published – Heinemann and Collins.
Now in Kindle.

   THE PULSE OF LOVE

Fog, and a silent clock,
A quiet house
Where tangerine roses
Almost tremble in the darkness.

Time now
To open
The mystery.

Time now,
To let
The mystery
Open every heart
To love.

         ©2019 Gwen Grant

DECEMBER JOY

Exploding roses
Fill the dark sky tonight.
It’s a bit crowded up there,
What with stars shining
And winged bombs giving warning
Of death and destruction
Hiding in their blinding light.

It’s no place for the birth
Of eternal love,
That’s for certain.
No place for hope or peace,
No place for joy.
Yet, against all the odds,
Against every last chance but one,
Love is born.

Love is born
And the winged bombs
Roaring down,
Fail to destroy the eternal.
Miss it completely.
Held safe as it is in every watchful heart
Suddenly become love’s cradle.

And so it goes.
Eternal Love bringing light to a dark world,
Born this night.

JOY TO THE WORLD.

2025© Gwen Grant.

My DECEMBER PEACE poem is this one for it was a place of utter peace.

We have a favourite place in Scotland that overlooks the River Tay, so
we often just sit there and watch the water.  The Tay is also known as
the ‘Silver’ Tay and it really does shine silver.  It’s a very beautiful river.
Behind where we sit, there is an Old People’s Care Home and the ladies
are often sat in their little conservatory.  Although they are old and
sometimes fragile, you can still see in them the lovely young women
they once were. That they can see the Tay, too, must be a tremendous
pleasure to them.

            LOOKING ACROSS THE TAY

The swans are out again,
Shimmering on the dark water,
Dipping into the splashes of moonlight
They become moonlight themselves,
Every feather sculpted in light.
Little white snowflake swans
Drifting down the silent river.

Behind us lies the Care Home,
Where glass walls welcome the lovely moon
And one lone bed
With a quilt as red as roses,
Lies empty in a corner.    

The old ladies who live there,
Watching the white and sparkling swans
Sailing on the glittering water,
Dreamily send their pretty, remembered bodies,
Down that golden moonlit path.
Frail little birds
Who soon overtake the swans.

This river and heaven
Must have a lot in common.              

©2017 GWEN GRANT