Category: Reflections

A SHORT HISTORY OF A COMPLEX LIFE

 A SHORT HISTORY OF A COMPLEX LIFE

The woman who ate the moon
Lives in the trees down by the river.

Wait!  I tell a lie!

She actually lives on some small landing
Up a flight of stairs halfway to heaven,
Or resides at the bottom of a cellar temporarily,
Standing on dark, unseen tiles,
Cold, mysterious and unsettling.
Looking fantastically familiar
Should you ever catch a glimpse of her.

She has a habit of singing through the dark hours.

Sometimes of how she is made of paper
Inclined, at times, to burst into flame.

Her mind is full of brushed glass pieces
Picked up on the beach, blown lovely
By the steady rushing of the wind-blown sea,
With pebbles, sea-shells, starfish, mermaids
And the bones of the dead rattling amongst them.

After she swallowed the moon, she held it tight within,
Complaining, sometimes, that light shone right through her
And only dragons, biting and marauding, could save her,
Lending her their teeth.

At night, the sky is alive with heroes,
Blazing shields held up and ready to meet the morning.
Great wings of strength and beauty beating behind them
As they go seeking the woman who ate the moon.

But she would only let in
Those who left their shields and wings at home
As she was extremely busy making her own history.

                                                             © 2020 Gwen Grant

THE MOON IS UP

THE MOON IS UP

                             A MIDNIGHT REFLECTION

That was the night my brother said, ‘The moon is up,’ and I straightway stepped out of the house onto a path so deep with frost, that as I walked towards the gate, I left dark footprints behind me.  Heading over the paddock, I could hear little crunching murmurs of the frozen blades of grass beneath my feet.

Then down to the river which seemed to be in good humour, laughing and chuckling.  This was the river I sat beside years and years ago when I was a girl, only a long way further down its length to where it opened into a wide stretch of water.  I sat on the grass with an armful of bluebells for my mother and watched that river.

This night, I remembered how I had made up the story of the river making the moon by spinning together the little gleaming fish until the circle was going so fast, it flew into the air and shone over the world and the moon was up.

Now I went along the light flecked river bank to the bridge where the rough stones pulled at my skin, their intense cold making me glad to be out in the icy air.  Out, then, and on to the bare field in front of me, bare of everything but frost, earth and stone, slipping and sliding on the long, pale grass to the old cattle trough caught in the middle of the hedgerow that stood between the field and the river.  

Sitting on the cold, grey rim, touching the frozen water that held the moon in its milky surface, running my fingers over the quivering, willing reflection until I could no longer feel them, I was part of this great silent loveliness, beauty and peace celebrating the darkness .

Over the fields I heard the faint sound of a dog barking somewhere in the next village, the fretful whispering of a few dead leaves hanging in the trees as the wind sighed through the darkness and the sudden rustling of the outside cat following me but never coming close enough to touch.

It was time to go home and the moon let me go, watching me walk over the glittering earth, across the frosted and freezing field.

The moon was up and the whole world shone.

                                                                                          ©2019 Gwen Grant

LINCOLN ROSES

Lincoln Cathedral was D.H. Lawrence’s favourite
cathedral. Mine, too. Even standing in the doorway and
looking down the long grey reaches into the Cathedral
proper, you know instantly that this glorious building,
this hymn of praise to Love, is going to capture your |
heart, not just for now but for ever. Not so easy to get
to anymore but closing the eyes will do it.

          LINCOLN ROSES

That day in Lincoln Cathedral,
The scent of roses in the air so strong,
I thought there must be some pretty dame
With high heels and posh perfume around.
But there was no-one,
Only me and Love and the great circular window
Full of coloured glass, glinting down at us. 

It was all so stern, so forbidding,
So unbending with the grey stone,
The slabs of walls and hard stone benches,
The weary pavements where thousand year old
Shadows of monks still lapped
Remorselessly up and down. 

This house is grey, great slabs of greyness,
With great roofs pressing down
Even as they soared into emptiness,
Undercutting the power structure of witless men
Determined to impress Love,
Maybe, with a small nudge to eternity,
Secure a place on that heavenly panel. 

Here some warning hand has put an Imp,
But no number of Imps or poker-faced priests,
Or high-hatted, rich robed fleshy monuments to the past
Can distract us from the petal of a fallen flower
Lying scarlet on the stone cold floor,
Pulsing with a life far beyond us.  

Love steadies the candle flames
Of small lanterns shining through the hazy darkness
Of a great Cathedral.
Illuminating that which cannot be seen,
Giving glory to that which cannot be touched,
The unspoken harmony of prayer
Enfolding us and Love. 

                                               © 2019/2025 GWEN GRANT

If you would like to use my poem, please get in touch.

A NIGHT AT THE PUB

     A NIGHT AT THE PUB

Mario Lanza began to sing
And from a far corner of the crowded room,
Another Mario joined in.
Another and another,
Until the whole place rang
With song and laughter.

Then, in his far corner, Elvis stood,
Quietly singing of love and loss,
Singing of a real reality
Until, one by one, they all fell silent.
Even the drunks hushed their slurred words,
Listening to a song of loss and loneliness
So intense, life meant nothing.

The Bar was silent, breathless with memory
As Elvis sang, and when he was done,
Mario began again.
And beer was passed from Bar to drinker.
Someone ordered a cheeky Campari,
With bright red cherry and a paper umbrella.
Whoa!  Hold the soda.

Night pressed against the Pub’s lit windows,
But no-one wanted to go,
To be swallowed by the darkness,
Wanted only to stay here in the mad brightness,
Listening to the singing,
Listening to the daft loons laughter,
Gulping Lager in the corner
And watch the girls swinging
On the tiny, tiny dance floor.
Dancing as if dancing could conquer
The songs they were hearing.
As if being young could conquer everything.

Strange to meet Mario and Elvis here,
Two bony young fellows singing to the drunk and to the sober,
Singing to drown or lighten the drinker’s sorrows.               

                                                     © 2019 Gwen Grant