MIDNIGHT WALK

      Walking through the dark trees,
      My steps sending little puffs of dust
      Over the small curling ferns crouching.
     The faint shine of a white petal
     Breaks through the intense darkness,
     Until a sudden throw of moonlight
     Brings the pale anemones,
     The golden celandine,
     Into perfect life on the woodland floor.

     I hear the soft shuffling of birds in their nests,
     Heads tucked under their wings,
     Deeply sleeping.
     Then the tiny bubbling of water running
     Down the little, half-hidden stream,
     Throwing the odd diamond drop
     Onto the yellow primrose.

     Here, small brown creatures
     Slip in and out of the freezing water,
     Icy, from the still snow laden hills so faraway
     This wood never thinks of them.
     Nor do we, until, we, too, are frozen.

     Out of the trees, onto the edge of the fields
     That stretch into the darkness,
     The small growings rustling an excited invitation
     To walk the night
     Over ploughed earth and stony frost sparkling
     To the far wood, which magic is held to own.
     But I turn back, not ready to meet a veiled magician
     Of spite, dead things and stagnant water.
     And the trees swallow me
     As a shadow is swallowed by darkness.

     Now the wood shakes itself,
     The trees whispering of this returned presence
    Walking their quiet and mossy paths.
     And I turn for home,
     To the lovely fragrance of wild roses
     In the hedgerows.

                                    © Gwen Grant

Yesterday, 11th November, was Armistice Day in this country and I put up a poem for that day.  The flower in this poem I saw en route to Scotland on a day thick with frost and the first flakes of snow falling.  As we waited at the side of the road to move on, I saw it, deep in a patch of woodland where every flower and leaf was fighting to survive.         

         ON THE EDGE OF WINTER

On the edge of winter
Where the pale-lit leaves
All frail and flimsy
Lift the trees above the sullen darkness,
Leaving bare their winter branches,
There, where burdock and spiteful bramble,
No longer green but cold and seamed
With bitter leaves
Warm their feet in the dark earth,
In the roots that wind and curl into the darkness
Hard by the yellow matted grasses,
The bleached and bone-white tussocks
Dying, dying, all sad and weary. 

There, on the edge of winter,
Lying in the frosty sparkle,
I saw the bold, bright petal of a winter flower
Defeat the darkness
With life and hope and love and passion.

                                 ©Gwen Grant

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, 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.

                                          © Gwen Grant

Years ago, I used to walk along a deserted northern beach.  I liked walking best at night but, having said that, the walk I remember most was one morning of thick fog when a light aeroplane swooped out of the mist almost alongside me and the pilot waved.  My night walks were usually lonely except that I would sometimes pass another woman walking on her own.  We never spoke, never stopped, yet there was a sense of being together.

 

            STALK  WOMAN  STRANGER

This woman walks along a stranger shore,
With night dabbed eyes she stretches far alone
To gather in the thin skin glow
Of placid moon.
She arcs her dark mouth for its home. 

She hears the stranger sea and slow cold blood.
With pale stick hands she paints her all life face
Upon the stilly parchment bone
Of caught up dust.
The window of her now time place. 

Stalk woman walking sea and stranger shore,
With spreading life holes hugs the whitened moon
To her lonely pebble breast
In timid joy.
And dances in night’s flower room. 

                                                © Gwen Grant