THE FALL OF ICARUS

Icarus must have fallen into our garden last night.
He must have landed with a thump,
Knocking all the feathers off his wings
Because the grass shone
With soft cream clover,
The startling embroidered white of daisies
And in the small brown pots
That were empty at dusk,
Grew tiny iceberg roses.
Pale and pretty as moonshine.

                               © 2020 Gwen Grant

FIERCE WIND AND STORM

Fog on the fields this morning,
So dense, I could only see
Shapes and shadows
Heading towards me.
Only hear the lovely papery rattle
Of dry leaves
Hanging on a bit longer,
Before the wind
Blows them and the fog
Into oblivion.

Standing at the fence, listening
To the cat’s tiny lappings
Of icy rainwater,
I feel the wind’s new strength,
Triumphant after its cleansing
Of field and hedgerow,
Pulling me and pushing,
Pushing me and shoving,
Until it almost bowls me over.

But I hold on,
With fingers strong and fierce
As wood, new leaf and berry.
For I have a lot to do
Before I allow any storm to blow me
Into oblivion.

©2022 Gwen Grant

COLOUR AND CLOTH

Sorrow is so easy to slip into,
Just checking colours
In the cupboard
Leads us to despair.
What are we to do with crepe-de-chine,
With cotton,
With strident silk mourning bands
The colour of emptiness?

Caught, as they are,
In the fit of a well sewn sleeve
Where needles have pierced
The quiet cloth,
Where silent cries of agony
Have tidied themselves
Into one long breath of servitude
To continued pain.

As sorrow pierces the tiny joy
That is all we have been able to put by,
All we have been able to save
Out of all the years and years
Of longing,
We bow our heads
To the garment of despair.

What are we to do?
What can be done
To ease implacable grief?
Tears and tears and broken tears.

Love is the colour
That saves us.
Love is the cloth
That sends us well clad
To attend the death of grief.

©2022Gwen Grant