Sorry, I hope to be back soon as I’m ill at the moment….Gwen
(I do miss my on-line family. Thanks, too, for your concern. I hope to be back soon but I’ve been
hoping that for the last six days!)
THE OLD STATION WALL
That great black wall
Towering over the train
Standing at the station,
Grows little green ferns
In the cracks between bricks,
Sends tiny yellow flowers
Bursting out of the old tar and dust,
So full of life and hope,
Their tiny petals tickle
The darkness with sunshine.
©2021 Gwen Grant
The last time I posted this poem, I was just out of hospital and
stuck in a wheelchair, so this place was just a lovely memory.
Now, one year later, we’ve been in lockdown and still couldn’t
get back for Spring but, as I said then, this is where I want to
visit again, even though we are heading for Autumn.
BLUE TIME IN SPRING TIME
Walking over them, I half expected to fall
Into the great blue gaiety of a perfect sunny sky,
For the small blue flowers, no bigger than a grain of corn,
Were blue stars under my feet, their eternal beauty
Starring this world through the gentle hand of love.
There is a deep tenderness in this wood, a deep love,
For here the purple flower, there, the red.
Now a creamy bank of butter yellow blossom gleaming
in the shadows,
Delighting, enchanting, lifting up to their own joyful gaiety
All those who walk under the dappling leaves.
The trees themselves swaying with delighted laughter
At this sunny celebration.
Beyond the blue flowers,
Beyond the pale grey stone and faded tags of leafy gold,
A fish leaps up through the sunlit water,
Glittering blue against the brown washed banks of the lake
drying in the morning sun,
And a swan glides by in slow, grave beauty.
Down this path the dandelion, that shock headed golden
Almost touches the red petals of a heavy blossomed tree,
A tiny goldfinch darting amongst them.
In the distance, a flash of blue as a jay flies to a far horizon,
Whilst a rich darkness shows up the blue black crow.
The squirrel pauses on its tiny orange feet
And the drake flies low, a dash of iridescent blue.
Then the blowing leaves whirl their tiny shadows under the trees
And the blue wash of bluebells turns the forest floor into a
dark blue sea.
And in a thousand, thousand places,
In the bramble and in the thorn,
In the dark silhouette of twigs lying flush against the blue sky,
In the fallen flowers lying on the grass,
In the purple and the red and the water floating blue.
The blue bells ring this steady proof of love.
© 2018 Gwen Grant