Our cat was seventeen years old. He was sweet natured and never bit and only used his claws in extremis. He was our grand-daughter’s cat but along the way of her moving houses, he came to stay with us for a bit and never left. He died last year and it’s only now I’ve felt able to write about him. I miss him. He loved his two knitted shawls.
OUR CAT
We laid him to rest Next to the fence, Close to the daffodils.
Brushing the dead leaves From where we were to lay him. Carefully placing his bright shawls Underneath and around him.
Where the snowdrops flowered To light the way for him.
A fit resting place for a conqueror to lie, To listen to eternity whistling.
The last time we were in Cornwall, we walked along a cliff top full of daffodils. The ones I bought from the shop are from Cornwall and remind me of that beautiful afternoon, with the sound of the sea and the sunshine. They’ve certainlycheered up a cold and dark day.
LITTLE LEMON FACES
Sunshine spilling Over the table, Cornish daffodils Washing their little lemon faces In the light.
A long way from home, They bring with them still, The sound of the sea.
To drown out The pitter-patter Of sulky raindrops Soaking a dark land.
Good Friday reminds me so much of when I was a girl. It was the start of a busy weekend of chapel going! My family were members of a Methodist chapel. It was years before I learnt it was Primitive Methodist but whatever it went by, in my memory it was full of singing and general happiness. The Chapel has been pulled down and my parents have gone but they have left behind lovely memories. Reading the Bible so comprehensively as a child played a large part in becoming a writer when I grew up. Stories full of incident and colour and characters swept through my life. When I was sent 300 miles away to an Open air hospital school for a year when I was 10, I found myself attending a Church of England Sunday school. It didn’t matter because I met all my old biblical pals there and on we went together!
GOOD FRIDAY
So now it begins with the sun striking through the tall windows, Onto the old brown pews and onto the pulpit, Onto the slender Cross where the weight of this weeping world Is carried on helpless shoulders, Onto the crown of thorns blazing in the shadows, Burning the darkness with its crimson glory.
This is not a gentle day, yet gentleness persists in breaking through, For the soaring arc of the wide blue banner Painted on the far wall of the Chapel, Painted high above the polished table where blue scented grasses Quiver in a silver goblet, unquestioning and faithful, Presents to us those golden words painted on that lovely blue arc, Words that insist ‘GOD IS LOVE’ Which gently insist it is this we must always remember.
The singing is bright now, pausing, darkening, lifting, soaring, Until a sudden startling descant adds its own touch of glory To all tough and tender hearts caught in a flesh Ever subject to death and to corruption, yet ever open to joy. These singers of sacred songs seek the strength of God as they sing And in those three plain words, GOD IS LOVE, find it.
Then the crisp cold air smelling faintly of lavender Drifts like a prayer into the silence and the silence is profound As silence always is when God is listening. And God is always listening. And love is always sending its quiet hope out into the world.
This poem came to be written because I’d been thinking about a music teacher we had at school. He was a very diffident man who had to try and teach some elements of music to a crowd of children for whom, by and large, music was a closed book. He stuck in my mind because I liked him and liked what he was endeavouring to do. Of course, a couple of years later came rock and roll, the whole world of music opened up to us and then we were all music, music, music!
MR ESPALIER
Mr. Espalier, our music teacher, Took himself very seriously, So we had to take him seriously, too. He would sit at the piano, strike a key, Muse, ‘Top C’, do you see?’ Then launch into a melody so beyond us, Only every now and again would a phrase catch our attention, Stopping the tapping of pencils on teeth, Lulling us into a silence that made us stop and listen.
But Mr. Espalier was full of surprises, One day swinging into music that followed us home, Curling all around the council houses, Weaving in and out of the pink ‘Peace’ roses Flowering in almost every garden, Dogging our heels, scaring the unwary, Banging on front doors and demanding entry.
We flung the doors wide enough, of course, For every note to march straight in. Until, like Mr. Espalier, this friendly, beaming stranger, Demanded our full concentration before it would begin, Almost carelessly, to give us its family name.
It was Dave Brubeck and Fats Waller, Moody blues man, Muddy Waters. Chopin and his mazurkas, Ravel and Woody Guthrie. Honky-tonk, rock’n’roll and Gospel Mahalia. Sibelius, with the drowning beauty of his ‘Finlandia.’ ‘Ophelia! Oh, Ophelia!’ Silky Peggy Lee and lovely ice-cool Ella. Stravinsky in the Spring and Arnold Schoenberg Whose every chord sent a flurry Of exclamation marks flying through the air, Filling every child there full of astounded questions. Then, ‘Stand to attention, you lot at the back,’ For here comes Elgar, As this glorious new family member Claimed our hearts once for always and for ever.
The winter tree is full of birds, Each snootily ignoring the others. Concentrating on disappearing Into small bundles of feathers.
Fierce little eyes threatening Anything that attempts to shift them From their bit of branch, From their tiny hiding place In amongst the twiggy darkness.
At least until the seagulls come With strong bodies and hungry winter eyes. Always on the look-out for a sustaining snack.
Then they’ll have to think again, Have to hutch up until they entirely vanish Into crooked black lines bleak drawn on the sky.
For they all know it’s only When those hard beaks have moved on, That the seagulls will go hungry.
Poems by Gwen Grant 