MARCH MORNING

MARCH MORNING

Sunshine
Threading through the garden,
Touching the first daisies,
Shining on the magpies,
Turning the water
In the old zinc bowl
Into shards
Of brilliant light.

Staying just out of reach
Of the cat’s lazy paw,
Until it pounces.

Catching the sun
In its sharp white claws.

The garden breathes out.

©2022 Gwen Grant

FOG IN THE MORNING

dinnington infog

FOG IN THE MORNING

More fog.
In the paddock,
Sheep, like ghosts,
Drifting up and down
The grass.

This could be yesterday
When we were all young
Together.

The early bus pulling up
At the Pit.
The sound of boots
On the half-hidden
Pavement,
In time for the early shift.

The rest of us asleep
Until the fog clears.
The sheep
Shaking it off their backs.

The lights of the Pit
Floating it
Clean away.

        © 2020 Gwen Grant

REMEMBER US


National flower of Ukraine

REMEMBER US

War is different now.
In the old days
Men wept and suffered and died alone.
Now, reels of film,
The pop and flash of the camera,
The digital image
Bring all suffering before us.

Here’s one,
With a loaded gun.
And there’s another.
The gun brings all to death
And death makes all women sisters
All men brothers.

And here,
Some precious daughter,
Some precious son
Lie silent and unknown.

Man has always fought
And Love has always loved
And man’s love has so tight a boundary.
Here’s the pity of it,
That we should line the boned earth
With the young.

War is different now
But it makes no difference to us.
We are the wounded.
We are the dead.

It makes no difference
Whether we send giant tanks down small streets
Or over flowers.
Or send soldiers.
Or whether death is dart flung
Out of a screaming sky.
We still die.

REMEMBER US.

As you watch us,
Caught for all time,
To suffer for all time,
To die for all time.
Remember us.

We were the men sprinting over sand
We were the women beside them,
The flash, flash, flash of bullets
Turning the fallen
Into sandcastles
Blown away by the wind.

Once, we were the future.
We were our sons and daughters,
Our futures wasted in the fist of death
Our red blood runs black,
Or blazing red.

Though every impulse of your heart
Reaches out,
You cannot touch us.
You cannot help us.
For men have always fought,
And Love has always loved,
And man’s love has so tight a boundary.
And yet!
And yet!
If we could love our neighbour
And get that right,
Old wars would never be repeated,
And through love, by love, in love
War itself would be defeated.

                              ©2012 Gwen Grant.

If you wish to use any of my work, please contact me.
All work is copyright.

CHANGE

CHANGE

Rock pools
Glittering in the sun,
Holding safe
Delicate little crabs,
Opalescent legs
Caught in thin strands
Of seaweed
Floating in ice-cold water.

Baby pink shells
Clicking against each other,
Waiting for the sea
To roll in,
Fling them to freedom.

To grow strong
In the crowded excitement
Of other waters.

                     ©2022 Gwen Grant