Years ago, when I was a girl, I used to read scary stories at bedtime to frighten
myself.  I bitterly regretted this when I had to live in a big old country house
with floors that creaked even when no-one was walking on them and when
shadows took the form of human figures. So, had I been asked then what was
the worst bad dream, I would inevitably have said something along these lines.
Now, however, bad dreams can be a lot more subtle and a lot more scary, just
like the one in this poem.

 DREAM MAKER

His dream maker has retired and gone
  on holiday,
Taking with it all the sunny holidays and
  golden beaches.

What has it left behind?
What couldn’t it be bothered to pack into its
  overnight bag?

Well, just about everything except the dream
  of Hoovers.
Walking up and down grey carpet, constantly
  running over the same bits of paper
With the same little black figures written on them.
The ones that don’t add up and never will no matter
  how often he writes them down.

That’s it!
A vacancy has occurred at this house.
Only dream makers with fabulous holidays in hand
  need apply.
Those who have hoovering and unfriendly figures
  in their pockets

   NEEDN’T BOTHER.

© 2023 Gwen Grant.

     FUTURE TENSE

The old girl lay sleepless in her bed,
Eyes staring through the dark,
Fretting at a future she couldn’t see,
Worrying at the hours and days and weeks
That lay before her.
Sleepless, she sighed again and again
‘If only I knew what the future will bring.’
Until the future, hiding behind the door,
Listening keenly, stepped in.

Picking up two particularly heavy days,
It smacked them round her head.
‘That’s one thing,’ it said.

 Then selecting an especially lovely
String of hours,
Gently laid them round her neck.
‘And that’s another,’ it said.
‘Now, before I go, is there anything else
You want to know?’

 ‘No,’ the old girl whispered, shaking her head,
Turning quick and over in her bed.
‘If it’s alright with you,
I’ll look at the stars instead.’

 ‘Good thinking,’ the future said.

                        © 2017 Gwen Grant

POKER PLAYERS

Magnolia time,
Each tightly folded and curving bud
Glittering palely in the street lamp’s light.
No-one walking out,
Not this early in the morning.
Only magnolia shadows awake,
Playing tag with rain puddles
Catching the moon.

What a game,
Both players hidden from sight,
Flicking joyful flashes of silver
Into the grey morning,
Into the quivering air.
Hiding their great strength and skill.

Poker players!
Both of them.
Holding winning hands,
Slapping them on night’s waiting table,
Challenging each other in storm and fury,
Until they fall out.
Lose patience.

Let’s hope they play nice tonight.

             © 2023 Gwen Grant

PRIVATE KEEP OUT!  by Gwen Grant
published by Penguin Vintage  Children’s Classics
available in paperback and as an ebook

THANK YOU to everyone who has been posting while I’ve been ill.
The Posts have given me a lot of interest and I have greatly
appreciated them. They also encouraged me to get to grips with a new
poem! Thank you again.

I have seen crows attack birds in the garden. They are ferocious and
seem to move around in groups of two or three when this happens. As
fast as I am getting into the garden to stop them attacking, they often
don’t seem all that alarmed by my presence. They do fly away but with
a definite reluctance.

WINDFALLS

Pheasant on the fence,
Setting the cold air on fire
With its coloured glory,
All darkness and burning flame.

The little flashing magpie scoots
Out of its imperious way.
Sober dove takes cover in the leaves
Of the apple tree.

Jealous of this Autumn beauty,
Furious at its greed
As it gobbles windfall apples,
Round and green,
Leaving nothing but a scrap
Of apple peel.

Watch out,
You two,
Those tree-top crows
Are hungry, too.

               ©2023 Gwen Grant