There’s always something to see at night!

FROSTY NIGHT AND JOGGER

They’re a sleepy lot
Down our street,
With the yellow lamplight
Shining on the ground,
Waiting for the first jogger
To come huffing and puffing
Down the silent morning.

Frost drifting through the air,
Tiny white dots of magic
Coming from nowhere.

The night cat is on the prowl,
Shaking its head to rid its fur
Of the tiny icy coldness.
Finding a bit of left-over fish
And a few frozen chips
Thrown down in a brown paper bag.
Still hungry. Still furious.

The dog in the warm kennel whining
For its owners to come home
Take him with them.
Take him away from the fox sniffing
Around the white garden,
Wondering if the tiny dog or the cat
Were small enough for supper.

The jogger suddenly slipping,
Landing with a crash and cursing.
Getting to his feet, bouncing.

The yellow lamplight growing brighter
And the fox eyeing him, suddenly tired
Of being cold and hungry.

© 2024 Gwen Grant

This has been a difficult summer and now I’m just emerging from
a severe bout with toothache, ending in the tooth being taken out.
There were horses everywhere in those days . A riding
school in the village often brings lovely horses past the house but
these horses don’t stop to pass the time of day. They’re working.

GALLOPING HORSES

That old broken chair
Of horsehair and shiny brown leather,
With splits in the cushions
No amount of polishing could ever repair,
Was kept so long it finally fell apart.

Clumps of wiry brown hair
Tumbling onto the green carpet.
Conjuring up quiet stables full of moonlight,
Restless horses longing to canter
On the grass in the back garden,
If that was all there was on offer.

I dreamt of glowing horses
Offered long orange carrots and ripped green apples.
Big, gentle mouths fastidiously accepting
These small fragments,
As they galloped out of my dreams
Into a world settled on all sides with houses,
Little black spaniels and friendly cats.
But I had a horse and wanted for nothing.

We had hours and hours of being together,
Racing over meadows, trotting over sand,
As that remembered brown leather became a saddle
Which, somehow, I knew how to handle,
The sound of the sea splashing all around us.

That was the way it always was
As we danced together,
On that crumpled old chair of shining brown leather.

©2024 Gwen Grant

I wrote this poem many years ago but can still remember the chair I sat in
to write it, the particular writing pad I had and the certain type of pen I
used.  It carries a lot of memories of people and times long gone.

   THE GRACE OF LOVE

Tenderly, let memory slide
From you to me
And me to you.
Gently, let time’s long tide
Wash over me
And over you.
From what remembered things
Are left behind,
From light to dark
We’ll pick and choose and find,
And use the whole
To heal and bind,
You to me
And me to you.

            © 1970 Gwen Grant

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

greenpeace

Homes! Winter on the horizon and every thing living needs
a warm and safe home.

NO SECOND HOMES

Whiteness
Blinding the eyes,
Snow and long ice
Holding the cold
Within them,
For when it is needed.

Fabulous bears,
Light as feathers
In the water,
Floating.
Pulling out and up
Onto the ice.

No second homes
To be built here.
Only igloos and ice caves
Where penguins
Could pop in for a chat
And baby bears
Knock on doors,
Asking for a cheese sandwich.

Or why not float away
On an ice floe.
Go for a holiday to Haiti,
Where ghosts and spirits
Economise in trees,
Dropping on passing shoulders
For company.
Something to be thought about.

One home each
Is now the world order.
Any left over to be given
To the homeless.
Who are everywhere.

©2024 Gwen Grant