FETCHING THE WATER

My mother used to walk around
 that sullen pond,
Ringed with bushes of vermilion flowers,
Sour nettles and wicked brambles
That would reach out to snag her, rip
  her flinching skin.

Frightened, she would hurry past,
Carrying clean pails to fetch clear water
From the chapel pump,
So they could have a cup of tea,
Get the day started.

While the pond turned darkly over,
Long toad tongues snapping their
  breakfast
Out of the ghost ridden air.

                    © 2020 Gwen Grant

When I was a child, there was an Apothecary’s shop in our town.
Walking in there was walking into a different world and I was
always surprised to come out and find the ordinary, familiar street
waiting just where I had left it. 

        LIVE THE MOMENT

So much of yesterday has gone into today
That even as dawn lifts the darkness
We are left behind, caught in the past,
Half looking for a way out,
Half longing to stay where we are.

Memories, brightened with a spit and polish
To smarten them up,
Clear away time’s dust that we may see them fully.
As if we ever could.

Our minds are apothecary’s chests,
Full of deep drawers marked in neat Latin print,
Happiness.  Joy.  Regret.  Grief.  Sorrow.
Where in the deepest drawer of all,
The one that runs right along the top,
Is love, that let’s yesterday fade away
And today take over.

                           ©2020 Gwen Grant.

All material on this blog is copyright but if anyone wants
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   http://www.gwengrant.co.uk

We’ve always had cats in our house.  The first one was jet black and
ruled our Keeshond puppy with a paw of iron.  The dog used to wriggle
past the kitten, too afraid to stand up and walk. Our present cat is
quite old now yet can still leap up onto the fence as if the height
is nothing.  It’s magical to watch.  This cat has given us so much
pleasure with his beauty and grace, that I wrote this poem in his praise.

THIS CAT

Our cat sits on a wooden seat
And looks at me,
As I look at him.
What he sees is someone who feeds him,
Someone growing slower,
Shakier.
What I see is a cat as sweet as an apple,
As lovely as a snowflake
Or a feather.

When he moves, uncurls, twines around
As if his bones were made of water,
A great smooth engine purrs into life,
So that this cat,
If he wanted,
Could lift the world up on his paw,
Use it as a ball to play with.

Even when he grows old,
Slower,
Shakier,
His eyes blurred and filmed with age,
He will still be lovely.

Each time I see our cat,
I am thankful
For the generous hand of love.

                            © 2017 Gwen Grant