Category: story

WOLF WIND

 Writing from a virus-hit January, the last thing we wanted to happen
was ferocious winds causing so much damage. But here we are, in
the middle of Nature’s rage and fury. I chose this poem to cheer myself
up and, hopefully, to cheer us all!

WOLF WIND

The wind comes wary,
Like a quiet wolf
Sneaking through the trees,
Watching what’s lying
In front of him.

This house blown down,
That tree uprooted.
The whole of one small town
Wrecked by the wolf wind’s fury.

Except for that little corner
Where Lovers plot and plan
       their glowing future.
Feeling the wolf’s sharp teeth
       nibbling,
They kiss and deny him.
Rap his nose and send him home
        crying.

       ©2021 Gwen Grant

PRIVATE KEEP OUT!  by Gwen Grant
published by Penguin Vintage  Children’s Classics
available in paperback and as ebook

NIGHT WORK

It’s a very cold night and the wind is picking up strength, sweeping over the fields with
teeth of ice. So this is the time to wish everyone HAPPY NEW YEAR and may the coming
months bring peace and hope for all.

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

HOPE IN TRAINING

I was cheered by the sight of rhododendrons full of tight buds, reminding me that, although
it’s still a long way away, Spring will come, the buds will open and their glorious flowers
shine out. Warmth and colour be in the world again.

HOPE IN TRAINING

Those tight little buds are waiting
For next Spring.

There’s no sign of hurry,
No hint of impatience.

In fact, just looking at them
Reveals an alternative world

To the one we live in.

©2021 Gwen Grant

THE PALE ROAD

 I like to hear the sound of our clock in the night. It’s a great comfort when you can’t
sleep to hear the unconcerned ticking. There used to be a brilliant clock in Dundee
which had, I think, nursery rhyme characters that came out and performed on each
chime. We would go and watch it until the hours made us move on. I haven’t seen or
heard this particular clock in years but it was so colourful and friendly. We collected
clocks once and they still live all over the house, some still ticking, some chiming,
some cherished.

  THE PALE ROAD

The house is quiet, silent,
Except for the ticking of the big clock
At the bottom of the stairs,
Whose chimes keep company
With those who cannot sleep.

Just before dawn,
A thin moon slides in through the window
And in a moment those awake
Walk the pale road of remembrance,
Of longing, until the past
Becomes the pale road of prayer.

Let the clock chime again,
That the past may be left behind,
The moon soothe the restless heart,
The whispered words bring peace.

                      ©2021 Gwen Grant.  

Available on Amazon Kindle and Draft2Digital e-books.

THE WORST MONSTER

I wrote this poem for the MacMillan book of MONSTER POEMS chosen
by Brian Moses, and  chose it to put up thinking it might be enjoyed as
 a bit of light relief, unless, of course, you do have a monster at the bottom 
of your garden!

THE WORST MONSTER

The worst monster in the world lives at the bottom of my garden.
She lives in the bushes just past the apple tree|
And never comes out unless she’s wearing her frock of old shadows
Patched with bits of night.
Plus, a little bright ribbon in her hair.
I can always see her ribbon, like eyes, really, shining in the dark.
‘You can’t be scared of a monster who wears a ribbon,’ people laugh.
‘Oh, can’t you!’ I say.
‘You should be here when she creeps into the house and lies in wait
on the stairs.
Or when she sidles into my room and hides under the bed.
I bet you’d be scared!’
I can handle that.
Well, most of the time, I can, but maybe not at midnight when the church clock
Chimes twelve times,
Calling out witches and wizards, floaty ghosts and hungry monsters
Who tap you on the shoulder and breathe down the back of your neck.
Yet, none of them are as scary as my monster,
Who wears a ribbon in her hair and hides at the bottom of the garden,
Waiting to get me.
The worst time, the scariest time,
Is not when she’s hiding in the bushes just past the apple tree.
It’s when she stands up and without taking one foot off the ground,
Catches the moon in her dark mouth and swallows it!
Then, I can’t see anything,
Not even her ribbon,
And I am more afraid than ever.

                                                          (c) 2005 Gwen Grant