We were out in the middle of nowhere when I saw this derelict piece
of farm machinery. We were surrounded by fields and fields with the
odd spinney breaking up the green and brown like an exclamation
mark. I’m hopelessly in love with these northern landscapes and
when, from a distance, I saw what I thought was a man in a field,
it seemed to me how fortunate he was to be out in that pure sunshine,
in that glorious land. If you’re going to be abandoned, there was no
better place.

        THE IRON MAN

I saw an iron man on the way north.
He was digging in a field of red earth,
The earth so red
It matched his rusty bones.
As we drew closer,
I saw with my own eyes
It was not an iron man, of course,
But some old farm machinery
Abandoned in a hedge,
Left to rot in the hard, cold hand of winter.

That iron man will never dig the red earth out.
Never throw a spadeful over his shoulder.
Yet men of iron and we, of blood and bone,
Have one thing in common.
We all need someone to help us.
They to have their rusty bones made bright again.
We to have our rusty hearts made new,
To shine again.

The iron man will have to wait until times change,
Until someone shows up who loves old farm machinery.
But our help has already shown up,
For hope will change us
And love will shine up the world.

                                               © 2018 Gwen Grant

    THE MILL POND

The Old Mill at the bend,
Where, every now and then,
The Mill pond is called back
By the water pouring itself
Into a great flood,
Covering the old road,
Filling the sunken garden,
Drowning the lanes
In witch soaked water,
So that no-one can come or go.
No-one disturb the ghosts
Of all the women drowned
As witches.

We don’t want them
Floating on top of the water.
Their dying eyes remembering,
Their mouths wide open with curses
To fall on those murdering men.

Witch hunters
Want those words laid upon them swept away.
Want the drenching fear of the dark spells lifted.
The women drowned all over again.

They should be so lucky.

The one with hair red as sunset,
White boned with wispy fingers,
Red heart bright with living fire,
Who has waited out the centuries
To claim her righteous vengeance,
Will take back every last curl
Torn from her dying head by jealous women,
Working hand in hand with murderous men.

Take heed, then.
Killers take care.
Remember the wronged dead,
Still lying amongst the dark weeds,
Still floating and drifting
Down and along the old Mill pond.

They do not forget
But wait by the Mill at the bend.
Their dead tongues clacking,
Their heavy shadows bending life and death
To their implacable will.

                   ©2020 Gwen Grant

 Where we lived when I was a girl, most of the gardens
around us were like my Dad’s. Full of vegetables, fruit,
flowers and hens. They were beautiful gardens and I
remember our garden with great fondness. 

  LITTLE BROWN HENS AND RED

My father’s garden was full of little brown hens
High stepping, tippy tapping in and out of the daffodils,
Pecking at the Spring mint, settling in the potato patch,
Always protesting, always complaining.
Not enough of this.  Too little of that.
The wicked tortoiseshell cat pinning them down
With eyes greener than the very grass they trod on.

They would crowd around the kitchen door,
Indignant little bodies demanding hen justice.
But they liked their bit of my father’s garden
With worms trying to live quietly beneath them.

Until my cousin came with his hard hands,
Hungry eyes and a heart intent on killing,
Then I went out shouting,
Scattering the little brown hens and the red,
Causing the dark cockerel
To turn his bitter, livid eye on my hateful presence.

Squawking, they fled, hiding under the hen coop.
Darting into the rhubarb leaves at the back of the tree.
But when my cousin kept coming, when his boots broke
The sunny daffodils, I pushed him so hard, he fell over,
I didn’t care about him.

For my little red hens and brown,
The arrogant cockerel with his angry eyes
All lived to tuck themselves up again
And sleep their tiny pulsing sleep.

To wake in the morning,
Ready for another really interesting day. 

                                          ©2020 Gwen Grant