ON TOP OF THE HILLS
The hills are old and cold
And green.
We have left the world behind.
There is nothing up here
But sky.
We’re so high,
With one quick jump,
We could land on the sickle moon.
And rock ourselves
To sleep.
©2011 Gwen Grant
NIGHT WORK
A bitter night of frost,
Of frozen snow and ice so thin
It came in on the wind.
Sharp as knives, cutting uncovered faces,
Splitting flesh on poor cold fingers,
Promising a day of misery
With beauty in its pocket.
Down the long perishing road,
Houses huddled tight together,
Looking for warmth.
Brick walls cold as stone.
Frost rimed windows and doors tight closed.
Tall chimneys carrying the tiny warmth
Of dying fires into the freezing dark.
Into this cold silence,
Whispered words, poems and half-remembered prayers
Drift like wisps of smoke.
Dreams and reality
Bringing another world to this world.
Bringing hope
For as long as those
Who do the night work,
Work on.
©2021 Gwen Grant
GREY GEESE FLYING
Late afternoon,
The geese only now flying
Over the meadow.
Their faint calls
Barely breaking the silence.
Yet, the cat,
Supposedly sleeping,
Instantly lifts his head.
Dandelion paws
Darting down the garden,
Gold eyes burning
With the desire to fly,
To catch those
Faraway geese
And kill them.
©2021 Gwen Grant
Summer bug flattened me! Here’s how I feel now!
DANCING
Marionnettes
Whirling in a jewel box
Feel no more at home
Than we do,
Standing,
Dreaming,
In this jewel box of a world.
But we dance
To a different tune to them.
We dance
To melodies that are beaten
Into the earth.
To rhythms
That nourish coloured leaves
And unveil flowers
Scenting the air around us.
Marionnettes
Jerk their little limbs
As they are ordered.
But denying bullet and bomb
Whatever victory they are seeking,
We dance,
Freelance.
Moving in the warmth and strength
Of an all absorbing love.
©2018 Gwen Grant
APPLE MORNING
Early in the morning
When the mist comes rolling in from the fields,
And the queer little ghosties
Come riding and writhing within it,
Sometimes leaping the battered old fence,
Other times sneaking through the holes
In the lacy broken wood,
Crossing the garden like smoke,
Coming to rest under the apple tree,
It is then I see their long grey fingers
Reaching through the leaves,
Winding around the shining apples
As if to pluck them from the branch and eat them,
And by eating, gain life.
But then the Autumn sun slides
Into the garden behind them,
Patting the twinkling shadows
Into tiny shapes of apple and leaf,
Weaving the winking apples into its sunny fingers,
Swallowing the mist and the little creeping ghosties,
Dusting those green, green apples with a flush of rosiness.
Neither pen, nor film, nor brush, nor quill
Can catch their utter loveliness.
No, all that can be done
Is to pick and hold and taste their glory,
Whilst the birds, the goats,
And the horse in the paddock
Who leans its head over the dead Philadelphus,
Over the tiny ghosties hiding in the dying flowers,
All hold back to await another apple morning.
© 2018 Gwen Grant
