The last time we were in Cornwall, we walked along a cliff
top full of daffodils.  The ones I bought from the shop are
from Cornwall and remind me of that beautiful afternoon,
with the sound of the sea and the sunshine.   They’ve
certainly cheered up a cold and dark day.

LITTLE LEMON FACES

Sunshine spilling
Over the table,
Cornish daffodils
Washing their little lemon faces
In the light.

A long way from home,
They bring with them still,
The sound of the sea.

To drown out
The pitter-patter
Of sulky raindrops
Soaking a dark land.

                  ©2024 GWEN GRANT

Good Friday reminds me so much of when I was a girl.  It was the start of  a busy
weekend of chapel going!  My family were members of a Methodist chapel.  It
was years before I learnt it was Primitive Methodist but whatever it went by, in
my memory it was full of singing and general happiness.  The Chapel has been
pulled down and my parents have gone but they have left behind lovely memories.
Reading the Bible so comprehensively as a child played a large part in
becoming a writer when I grew up.  Stories full of incident and colour and
characters swept through my life.  When I was sent 300 miles away to an Open
 air hospital school  for a year when I was 10, I found myself attending a Church
of England  Sunday school.  It didn’t matter because I met all my old biblical pals there
and on we went together!

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. 

                                                                    © 2018 GWEN GRANT.

TREE IN WINTER

The winter tree is full of birds,
Each snootily ignoring the others.
Concentrating on disappearing
Into small bundles of feathers.
Fierce little eyes threatening
Anything that attempts to shift them
From their bit of branch,
From their tiny hiding place
In amongst the twiggy darkness.

At least until the seagulls come
With strong bodies and hungry winter eyes.
Always on the look-out for a sustaining snack.

Then they’ll have to think again,
Have to hutch up until they entirely vanish
Into crooked black lines bleak drawn on the sky.

For they all know it’s only
When those hard beaks have moved on,
That the seagulls will go hungry.

                                       ©2024 Gwen Grant.

PURELY EDUCATIONAL

The expert talked at tremendous length
About history,
About sculpture,
About ecstatic revelation
Through painting
And surprisingly, about knitting.
Or, maybe, it could have been weaving.
She’d lost consciousness for a moment there,
Lulled into sleep by his steady voice.

Of course! Weaving!
Well, whatever it was,
That scrap of gold cloth
Was ancient and beautiful
And should be languishing in a museum.
Exactly where it was now.

Without pausing for the expert
To catch his breath,
The little group found they had moved on
Into the room full of Roman heads.
Meeting all sort of ears and mouths.
‘And this!’ the expert gently intoned.
A finger hesitating over a perfect marble nose,
Then sliding down the air.

Not touching the lovely curving lips
That disturbed the smooth and shining face.
‘With, look!’ the expert breathed,
‘Look at this tiny indentation of the chin.
This,’ he went on, ‘is why I love them.
‘Love them,’ he repeated huskily.
For these heads are the most beautiful
That have ever been.’

She woke up then.
He loved them? He did!
She could see the tears in his eyes,
Feel his passion for that unsmiling marble face
She was hungrily gazing at,
As it caught her in its eyes.

In the end, it was love at first sight.
Ignoring the yelp of the expert
She cradled that cool face between her warm hands,
Leaned in for a kiss
From those curving, sensuous, waiting lips,
That she swore, kissed her back.

They had to make her let it go.

 ©  2024 Gwen Grant