Category: story

PEA PODS AND PROMISES

PEA PODS AND PROMISES

Pea pods and pea straws
And fields of green oceans
As far as the eye can see,
And busy little children
Building pea-straw houses
Or getting lost in the green fields
As their mothers pull peas.

They were all told
To keep away from the small river
Where the Kingfisher flew,
Enchanting those who saw
The blue blur, blue on blue.
Tempting one child or another
To slide into the water.

Languorous now, the afternoon wears on,
The sun emptying those green oceans,
The red tractor silent
As little children are found and woken.
Bags weighed,
Coins counted one by one
Into green-dirty hands,
Ready for the waiting corner-shop man.

Time to climb onto the lorry.
Time to go home.

Everything will have changed
In the year that is yet to come,
But the fields will still be full
Of quiet green oceans bringing hope
Of a new harvest.

                                   © 2020 Gwen Grant  

WHEN IRENE SANG HER SOLO

Some years ago, I wrote a Christmas Play. One of the parts was
taken by my good friend, Irene, who had a wonderful singing
voice, so that when she sang, there was breathless silence.
This is the poem I wrote about Irene and her Christmas carol.

 WHEN IRENE SANG HER SOLO

Our choir is so good
Angels come down to listen to them.
Those angels think I can’t see them,
But I see them,
Dancing on the head of a pin,
Lolling on the piano,
Or perching poker-backed on the tops of chairs
Where people are already sat listening.
They are very fond of songs where angels appear
And especially liked it that time
When Irene sang her solo,
‘Angels from the realms of glory.’
The angels liked that so much
The tips of their wings were quivering.
But when our choir sings about the Lord,
Those angels join in.
They think I can’t hear them,
But I hear them.
‘O Lord my God,’ our choir sings,
And the angels singing with them kneel down,
Their wings all spread around the singers as they sing,
Together filling this whole place with such tenderness
I bow my head and cannot look at them again
Until the singing ends.
The angels have all gone home by then.
‘Gloria in excelsis Deo!’  AMEN.

                                     © 2008 Gwen Grant

                                             

THE ARTIST AND HER FISH

This poem is one of a series of poems I wrote about several
paintings done by a friend.  Poems and paintings went on
exhibition at Southwell Minster.      

  THE ARTIST AND HER FISH

Fling the wide river of life right
around the world.
Fling it round.
Fill it with coral and weed,
Whales and whelks and beautiful fish,
Fill it with mollusc and minnows and those
pearly pink shells
You can hear the sound of the sea in.
Spill it onto the land.
Spill it over,
Swooning and singing with the voices of angels,
Or the roar of a giant,
Or the steady murmuring lisp of a baby falling asleep.
Fill it full.
Be bountiful.
Crab.  Lobster.  Cockles.  Flat fish.
Round fish.  Jelly fish.  Fish with square noses.
Sword fish.  Dog fish.  Cod fish
And my beautiful yellow fish.
Let them swim
In the wide river of life flung
around the world.                

                                                 © 2012 GWEN GRANT.       

UP IN THE WIDE BLUE YONDER

UP IN THE WIDE BLUE YONDER

Children are always certain
Someone has forgotten
To give them wings,
And that one day,
Wings will suddenly sprout
Out of their shoulder blades,
With enough feathers
For an entire flock of eagles.

Childhood has long since gone
But I am still waiting.

                   © 2020 Gwen Grant

IT’S A FAMILY THING

    A reconstruction from bones believed
     to be Cleopatra’s sister, Arsinoe IV

IT’S A FAMILY THING

I have seen them
Down in the valleys,
Up on the meadows,
Carefully digging and sifting
For remnants of a past age and generation,
Finding beads, bits of gold, sometimes
                             bracelets and bones,
Always bones.

Here is my sister.
I can see her as she once was,
Clothed in skin and slender,
Lying in her bony shallows,
Where nothing much is left of her.
Yet I am glad they cover her
When it starts to rain.

For, in my mind, she stands before me,
Long and lovely, her smile dazzling,
Her elegant feet tapping against her grave.

Through the sound of raindrops
I can almost hear her whisper,
‘Welcome, my sister.’
As she stands on one side of her ancient
                                              death place
And I stand silently on the other,
Returning her greeting,
‘Welcome, my sister.’

Centuries apart, it’s a family thing.

                            © 2020 Gwen Grant