A WHOLENESS OF LOVE

There is a delicacy about a life
Grounded in love.
A strength of sweetness
That in its sunny passion
Adds up to more than the sum of its parts.

More than hope,
More than peace,
More than all the other lovely verities
Love holds close within it.

For it is a generosity of spirit
Upon which all love is founded,
Revealing itself in a precise and passionate
Understanding of helpless need.

Always ready to dance,
Always ready to share in joy,
Always and forever reaching out a hand,
Holding on as long as needed.

                                     ©2017 Gwen Grant

When I was a child, I was sent away for a year for my health.
Everything there was the exact opposite to my home.  No
bright colours as at home and, of course, with so many
children to care for, instead of love, there was an impartial
interest and care.  There are many times we would not go
back to and this was one of them.

LET IT BE

Last night,
The apple tree turned white,
Its wide skirts trembling
As if some fabulous ballerina
Was dancing over the grass.

For a moment,
I was taken back
To my childhood.
Looking at an apple tree
Through a window,
Where my finger nail
Scraped long strands of frost.

Before the next winter’s frost,
I was a long way from home.
A long way from love and colour,
Close to dark uniforms,
To squares of aprons
Crackling in snowy starchiness.
White caps like fearful torches
Breaking the dusky violet night,
Making me weep for home.

Now making me glad that none of us
Can inhabit the past.

©2019 Gwen Grant

TOMORROW AND TOMORROW

There is no name
Carved in stone
For you.

Your memorial
Is forever written
in the air.

Inscribed
On the folds
Of all the days
Since you left.

One day,
A thousand days,
Makes no difference
To those who loved you.

For those who loved you,
Love you still.

©2021 Gwen Grant.

GARDEN IN THE MORNING

Jay bird,
Lovely beyond words,
Visiting the apple tree
On its way to something better.
Gleaming palely through the leaves.

On the fence,
Two black collared doves
Sit grumpy and silent,
Watching the crows swooping low.
Not fooled by their wings
Splashing shade on the hot grass
For their killing patches.

The old cat,
Marmalade fur thin and crumpled
As creased taffeta,
Knowing climbing is beyond him
Takes his anger out on the brassy magpie,
Chasing this feathered beauty
From one end of the garden
To the other.

Until the magpie tires of taunting
The old cat.
Wisely remembering its sharp claws
And its will to kill those that torment him.

                                  ©2021 Gwen Grant.

One of my favourite things is walking.  I used to walk a lot at night,
loving the darkness  and the way the world changed in the fields
and hedgerows, the way the flowers stood out like small moons. 
This was an encounter with a poacher.  They were such silent and
still men, stiller even than the trees and when they heard anyone
coming, it was as if they turned to wood themselves, frightening you
out of your wits when you spotted them.

      POACHER’S MOON

That night, when I was out,
Walking the frozen fields,
He was the only stranger,
The Poacher.
Standing still as a death stone
Under the oak tree,
Switching on his head lamp
Only when I was past.

Blinding me and the rabbit,
Blinding me and the hare.

And I wondered if this was the time
Me and the pheasant,
The rabbit and the fox
Would all lie down together,
All freeze and die together
In the white and frosted furrows,
To lie there forever.
For ever and for ever.

For I had seen the Poacher,
By dint of old and wicked country magic
Of Deadly Nightshade and Henbane,
Leap into the sky above us.
His head lamp shining away
Every shadow that would save us.

Until I looked again and saw
The Poacher’s moon. 

                                         ©2019 Gwen Grant