Category: interests

RAINBOW

 

When I was 12 years old, I decided I would walk to the end of a
rainbow, find the gold and we could all live happily ever after. 
Several hours later, almost too tired to take another step, the rainbow
as far away as ever and fading fast, I headed back home.  I found
something on that expedition, though, as I’ve never forgotten it.

     RAINBOW

Possibly,
All life exists
At the end of a rainbow.
Gold,
Fairies,
Witches on broomsticks,
A Knight in shining armour.

I don’t really think so.
The last time I looked,
There was only a crumble of dirt,
A grain of corn,
A rain beetle struggling through the leaf mould.

Still, we build
What we can
With what’s to hand.

                                          © 2018 Gwen Grant

QUIET SPACE

   QUIET SPACE

The space between words
Is a place of great comfort,
Where the mind can rest
And the eye assess
What is to come.
To prepare for the future.
So it is with prayer.

For prayer is the space
Between being and doing.
A place of great quietness
Where the heart can find ease,
Mind and soul
Find new strength
To face whatever lies in front of us.

                                   ©2019 Gwen Grant

THE MILL POND

    THE MILL POND

The Old Mill at the bend,
Where, every now and then,
The Mill pond is called back
By the water pouring itself
Into a great flood,
Covering the old road,
Filling the sunken garden,
Drowning the lanes
In witch soaked water,
So that no-one can come or go.
No-one disturb the ghosts
Of all the women drowned
As witches.

We don’t want them
Floating on top of the water.
Their dying eyes remembering,
Their mouths wide open with curses
To fall on those murdering men.

Witch hunters
Want those words laid upon them swept away.
Want the drenching fear of the dark spells lifted.
The women drowned all over again.

They should be so lucky.

The one with hair red as sunset,
White boned with wispy fingers,
Red heart bright with living fire,
Who has waited out the centuries
To claim her righteous vengeance,
Will take back every last curl
Torn from her dying head by jealous women,
Working hand in hand with murderous men.

Take heed, then.
Killers take care.
Remember the wronged dead,
Still lying amongst the dark weeds,
Still floating and drifting
Down and along the old Mill pond.

They do not forget
But wait by the Mill at the bend.
Their dead tongues clacking,
Their heavy shadows bending life and death
To their implacable will.

                   ©2020 Gwen Grant