Last Thursday?
That was the very hot day
When the wood pigeon laid down on the grass
To rest.
Wisely turning its head from side to side,
Watching for magpies
And for crows,
Knowing that if they spot him
He’ll have to move fast,
Unfurling his wings and ready for flight
In an instant.

For these killer birds,
Given half a chance
Will peck him to death.
Unpicking his feathery body
Until it lay all around him on the baking grass.
Dove grey feathers dotted with blood
Lying silent in the hot sun.
His agony fading in the morning air.

This small bird is careful
Not to let that happen to him.
Taking off the moment the long dark leaves
On the Cherry tree begin to shake.
Hiding the unfriendly presence
That has already landed
With its iron beak and deadly intentions.

So that’s him gone then,
Soaring into the sun,
His wings almost the colour of rain,
Vanishing into the trees in the summery distance.

©2026 GWEN GRANT

     FUTURE TENSE

The old girl lay sleepless in her bed,
Eyes staring through the dark,
Fretting at a future she couldn’t see,
Worrying at the hours and days and weeks
That lay before her.
Sleepless, she sighed again and again
‘If only I knew what the future will bring.’
Until the future, hiding behind the door,
Listening keenly, stepped in.

Picking up two particularly heavy days,
It smacked them round her head.
‘That’s one thing,’ it said.

 Then selecting an especially lovely
String of hours,
Gently laid them round her neck.
‘And that’s another,’ it said.
‘Now, before I go, is there anything else
You want to know?’

 ‘No,’ the old girl whispered, shaking her head,
Turning quick and over in her bed.
‘If it’s alright with you,
I’ll look at the stars instead.’

 ‘Good thinking,’ the future said.

                        © 2017 /26 GWEN GRANT

These May days are hot and green and surrounded by
green after the cold dark days of winter, I began to think of
magic. Into my mind came the leprechaun. It seems
there are quite different ideas of what a leprechaun looks
like but, for me, in these hot green hours, he seemed both
beautiful and magical. And that is how he stayed with me
during the many weeks of writing this poem.

LEPRECHAUN

Look at that face!
That’s a leprechaun’s face on that man, that is,
Full of sly humour, of hidden wicked laughter:
But what’s to be done, when a leprechaun won’t love,
Leaves heavy eyes and a dark enchantment
In those blinded by his triangular beauty,
Hearts torn apart with longing.

A beautiful, simple chimera,
Yet no-one can resist him.

See how his knowing music
That never adds up to the sum of its parts
But is enchantment,
Makes the listener dance fast, then faster, faster,
As if we have feathers for toes.

So light, the enchanted dance easily
With the frail and lonely ghosts
Sliding quietly into the living world.
Lovely in themselves but lovelier still
When the leprechaun makes the music cry
And the lost heart cry with him.

Look at that face!
That’s a leprechaun’s face on that man, that is.
Captivating, meant for love to flower in all who see it.
No-one can resist such beauty,
His knowing smile conquering every doubter.

Careful!  Careful!
For we all want to taste that mouth of mocking laughter,
See that twinkly-eyed thousand year face smile,
Close our fool’s ears to the harsh voice of sorrow, of hostility,
As that sly and wicked little heart,
That leprechaun,
Mocks us.

                             ©2026 GWEN GRANT

No fog this morning, except the fog of remembrance
when I look out of the window. The paddock is peaceful,
only the birds and the odd small dog racing wildly
across the grass. No sheep and no goats but the beauty
of it all remains. The white May blossom thick on the trees,
the crabby, bad-tempered crows threatening everyone but
we can cope because any day now the swallows will be back.

FOG IN THE MORNING

More fog.
In the paddock,
Sheep, like ghosts,
Drifting up and down
The grass.

This could be yesterday
When we were all young
Together.

The early bus pulling up
At the Pit.
The sound of boots
On the half-hidden
Pavement,
In time for the early shift.

The rest of us asleep
Until the fog clears.
The sheep
Shaking it off their backs.

The lights of the Pit
Floating it
Clean away.

        © 2020 Gwen Grant

Available on Amazon Kindle and Draft2Digital e-books.

BLUEBELLS

Out of the dirt,
Two flowers
Pushed for life. 

Green stems,
Green leaves,
Delicate blue bells
Shaking in the wind. 

Aristocrats.
Rising above every situation
That would bring them down. 

          ©2021  Gwen Grant.