Category: Uncategorized

GOAT IN THE MOONLIGHT     

When there were goats in the paddock, the big one, and he was
really big, was very aggressive. He bashed down our fence and
stalked into the garden. When I tried to shoo him back onto the
grass, he lowered his head, then started to rattle his feet at me.
There was a lot more of him than of me so I backed carefully away.
While he was there with his little company of goats, he went
exactly where he pleased. I found him very scary. He’s the closest
to the Great God Pan I have ever seen. Now we have a flock of
sheep who follow anyone who comes to take a short cut.
But they are absolutely non-aggressive, for which I am truly thankful! 


         GOAT IN THE MOONLIGHT        

The big goat’s ghost is in the paddock,
He must have forgotten to take it with him,
For when I look out of the window at midnight,
I see him stomping down the grass,
Looking for trouble.

Smashing everything that stands in his way,
Rearing up against the apple tree,
Ripping the apples from the branches
With huge brown teeth.

Just as I think of banging on the glass
To scare him away, he sees me,
His wicked eyes glinting in the moonlight,
Full of hate, full of the desire to kill.
Starting towards me, his great body moving
As fast as a shadow blown in the wind.

I am deathly afraid.

Until the moonlight dissolves him,
Turning the night back to normal.
I wonder where he has gone,
Knowing there is no comfort for me
Until I know exactly
Where he has found a place to hide.

                        ©2021 Gwen Grant.

SNAIL PACE

SNAIL PACE

There isn’t a soul to be seen in the silent street
This early in the morning.

Until the night cat stalks down the pavement,
Light from the street lamps doing its best
To show up the green fringe of grass and weeds
Revelling in that bit of empty space
Around the bottom of the fencing.

Where it looks as if the local snails
Had a bit of a hoe-down dancing.
Leaving silver trails criss-crossing the concrete.
A tiny shine here, a little glitter there,
All gone by morning.

Unless the cat treads its paws wherever he wants to.
Padding away the last of the silver festivities with him.

But why should he care?
When no-one ever thought to ask him to join in.

©2020 GWEN GRANT

A SMALL MISUNDERSTANDING

children praying

  A SMALL MISUNDERSTANDING

This was the first prayer ever taught us,
Long before we could understand
Or be aware of our need for prayer.

Standing in ragged rows, eyes closed, we began,
‘Our Father, who art in heaven.’
But through a small misunderstanding
This became a little prayer for
‘Our Arthur, who art in Devon.’

Still, even not knowing Arthur,
We were happy that our prayer
Put that little intrepid wanderer
Into such safe and loving care.

                                               ©2018 Gwen Grant

LITTLE BROWN HENS AND RED

 Where we lived when I was a girl, most of the gardens
around us were like my Dad’s. Full of vegetables, fruit,
flowers and hens. They were beautiful gardens and I
remember our garden with great fondness.

This poem has already been published but I’ve been thinking
about my family quite a lot lately, especially my Dad, so here is
a poem I wrote about him and his garden.  I only have to
picture the garden in my head and it’s there, always in sunshine and
with the hens darting about, hiding wherever they can.   Gardens 
are priceless for what they bring to us.

LITTLE BROWN HENS AND RED

My father’s garden was full of little brown hens
High stepping, tippy tapping in and out of the daffodils,
Pecking at the Spring mint, settling in the potato patch,
Always protesting, always complaining.
Not enough of this.  Too little of that.
The wicked tortoiseshell cat pinning them down
With eyes greener than the very grass they trod on.

They would crowd around the kitchen door,
Indignant little bodies demanding hen justice.
But they liked their bit of my father’s garden
With worms trying to live quietly beneath them.

Until my cousin came with his hard hands,
Hungry eyes and a heart intent on killing,
Then I went out shouting,
Scattering the little brown hens and the red,
Causing the dark cockerel
To turn his bitter, livid eye on my hateful presence.

Squawking, they fled, hiding under the hen coop.
Darting into the rhubarb leaves at the back of the tree.
But when my cousin kept coming, when his boots broke
The sunny daffodils, I pushed him so hard, he fell over,
I didn’t care about him.

For my little red hens and brown,
The arrogant cockerel with his angry eyes
All lived to tuck themselves up again
And sleep their tiny pulsing sleep.

To wake in the morning,
Ready for another really interesting day. 

                                          ©2020 Gwen Grant