They dug up the road yesterday~ And all night long The traffic lights have gone From red to green and back again In orderly succession.
No-one got held up. The fox went through on red, A jogger on green, The hedgehog from across the road scuttled by And the cat who rules the night Ignored them all. Turning into a red, green and orange shadow Curled up by the gate Until it was sure what was going on.
Tomorrow it will all be taken away, The magic lost And the world will have to go back To steady colour,
With a bit of black and white As the night draws in.
This is a day that always has an echo in my heart. I’ve published this poem often before but my memories of Good Friday are so vivid and loved, the Chapels, the people, the singing, the glorious words that relate its sombre story always there to hold me, seem eternally new.
GOOD FRIDAY
So now it begins with the sun striking through the tall windows, Onto the old brown pews and onto the pulpit, Onto the slender Cross where the weight of this weeping world Is carried on helpless shoulders, Onto the crown of thorns blazing in the shadows, Burning the darkness with its crimson glory.
This is not a gentle day, yet gentleness persists in breaking through, For the soaring arc of the wide blue banner Painted on the far wall of the Chapel, Painted high above the polished table where blue scented grasses Quiver in a silver goblet, unquestioning and faithful, Presents to us those golden words painted on that lovely blue arc, Words that insist ‘GOD IS LOVE’ Which gently insist it is this we must always remember.
The singing is bright now, pausing, darkening, lifting, soaring, Until a sudden startling descant adds its own touch of glory To all tough and tender hearts caught in a flesh Ever subject to death and to corruption, yet ever open to joy. These singers of sacred songs seek the strength of God as they sing And in those three plain words, GOD IS LOVE, find it.
Then the crisp cold air smelling faintly of lavender Drifts like a prayer into the silence and the silence is profound As silence always is when God is listening. And God is always listening. And love is always sending its quiet hope out into the world.
We bought two bunches of wallflower plants from the market, not expecting to see any flowers until next Spring. But they’re all blooming. My Dad was a keen gardener and a good one and he would have been totally amazed by this. But I remember the winters when I was a girl were bitterly cold and snowy so no flowers at all then. Only ice flowers on the water in the old quarry. I’d forgotten those ice flowers which broke wide open when anyone fell into that desperately cold water and one of the older children had to be fetched to rescue them. One of the worst problems the rescuers faced was the ice, sending both rescuer and drowning child slithering and sliding out of reach so more and more dangerous attempts had to be made until the rescue was accomplished.
Today, in Spring, we are warned of bitterly cold weather on its way, snow on top of the hills and freezing cold winds but we hang on to the promise of summer.
WALLFLOWERS IN NOVEMBER
The old gardeners would never have believed it. Not wallflowers in November. Why, that would have been against all the laws of nature, Unheard of. Yet, here they are, Smiling into the crisp November morning. Their velvet yellow petals Reminding the cold air of Spring, Their dark reds almost bringing alive The sultry sweetness of summer.
One glance is enough to reveal The energy of those glorious flowers, Enough to set the world on fire, More than enough to put bitter frost in its bitter place, No killing will ever happen here.
Wallflowers in November can do that. Their petals scent the days Even when the trees are dying, Giving lie to all those stories Of life and death endings. Laying claim, once for all, to no endings here.
If she had to cut her coat According to her cloth, The old girl knew It was going to be a damn thin coat, Nowhere near thick enough To keep out the cold.
Glancing into a passing shop window, She felt absolutely fed-up, For the coat she had been wearing For all of her present eternity Was thin, too, and wrinkled, Needing an iron.
But, sighing, with a bit of luck, she knew she would Patch it up a few more times Before she was ready to change it.
I went dancing a lot when I was young and as it was the time of Rock and Roll, that was part of the dancing I did, as well as the waltz, the tango and other favourites that had you up and on the floor from the first chord of music. As a younger child, I was taught tap dancing and ballet and wanted nothing more but to dance. I have such brilliant memories of those days and did tap dancing for years. Whilst I still rock and roll, however, it’s in a very polite and sedate manner with a nod here and a twirl there whilst I’d absolutely much rather be whirling and swinging!
I’ve left this original introduction in because it still applies except that places to dance with a band or group are few and far between now. Still, given half a chance, I dance!
WALLFLOWER ROCK AND ROLL
Buying roses and chrysanthemums From the woman in the market, I ask if there are wallflowers, This morning up for sale. Wallflowers! says she. Why, there are bunches In a box lying just around the corner, Small and compact plants, to make a garden sing. But there are no long and leggy gilly-flowers With their scented velvet petals, In reds and yellows, oranges, and crimsons dark as blood, For no-one wants this lady. No-one wants to take her. She has to flower and blossom in the shadows on her own.
We were standing down along From the old and ravaged dance hall That used to be our golden home in all those years gone by When quick as a curve in time, The dance hall years sprang out at me. With throb of drum and splintered icy glitter of guitar, A fevered trumpet singing silk; the sax’s cool desires, Then harsh and sweet the singer sang, And so the dance raged on and on. Rock! Rock! Rock! Until the street began to swing, With fast ecstatic dancers in fast ecstatic dance.
No wallflowers in that dance hall, no little flower alone, For short and compact, long and leggy, They’re out there dancing on their own. Rolling with the rest of them, rocking with the best of them, The swirling, whirling girls with their flaring, sexy petticoats, On their moving, grooving heels so high; stiletto thin, They can balance on a silver coin, Rocking angels dancing on the head of any pin. Hot rock with grace, with love and passion, For though they think they own the dance, They know the dance owns them.
No wallflower lad stands all alone As Princely in his thick soled, Suede, and mighty brothel creepers, Cool and smooth in bootlace tie and Lamming gown, With Tony Curtis curl of hair slickly curling down. Young lions they stand, fierce, on the prowl. Aloof and fabulous in their time, Until the music bolds their blood, Guitar and trumpet, sax and drum, When flesh and skin and bone give in, To make the dance hall sway and swing To flirty, dirty, rock and roll. ROCK ON!
Poems by Gwen Grant 