In this austere and lovely space,
Where the kindly dust
Of close-lived hours falls gently down,
Where memory plays its own cantata
In each one of us,
Song pours out,
Raining down the paved streets and concrete
Of cities,
Drenching the waiting, watchful towns
Until they flower,
Rooting themselves in a torrent of melody.

Living proof that hope can never be extinguished,
That gaiety and gladness will blossom
Over and over again.
                                                      © 2018 Gwen Grant

 

  FLOWER WIDE-EYED AND OPEN

When she was at her worst
She was still interested in flowers,
Touching the petals gently
Before ripping them off.

For a long time, it was all destruction,
Until she found the bulb
Lying on top of a flower bed,
Pushed out by the hidden spite
Of things in the earth beneath it.

‘Just like me,’ she said, picking it up,
Planting it in the blue window box
Full of dark earth and seashells,
Not even glancing at it till Christmas.

Then, of course, she destroyed it,
For where she had expected a flower
She found snakes, and swearing they had bitten her,
Mashed it all up in her hands.

That bulb, sending out its delicate thin roots,
Keen as mustard to multiply,
Didn’t stand a chance.

Next time, we’ll give her a fat rosy bulb,
Flower already wide-eyed and open.

                           © 2020 Gwen Grant

 

      PIT LANE

At the bottom of Pit lane
Stands the statue that isn’t there,
Glorious in its grace and dignity.

A catch of men coming off shift,
Sunlight piercing their helmets,
Pickaxes and tired faces.
All sculpted from black coal,
Bits of brass and coal dust.

In Spring, buttercups shine their steel toe-caps.
In Winter, snow warms their cold shoulders.
In any time, they forge their own strong
  and living presence.

                           ©2020 Gwen Grant.

THE UNFAMILIAR

A bitter night,
With Christmas around the corner.
Snow, freezing as it was falling,
Hiding the paths
Through this unfamiliar wood.

Yet, touching the dead ferns
Curling in on themselves.
Catching the holly
Shining darkly through the snow,
I open my arms
To these unknown trees glittering
With starlight and splintered rainbows.

I long for my own home wood,
Where paths are beaten
Into fallen leaves and shadows.
Yet this place of tall trees,
Of wide spaces,
Of lost and scary paths covered in snow,
Hiding lost and scary creatures,
Has found a place in my heart.

For these are things of the earth
And their loveliness enchants me.

                     © 2020 Gwen Grant