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THE CORNFIELDS AT PRAYER


From my bedroom window, I can see stretches of corn fields and walking on the paths alongside these fields, I can always hear the corn fields whispering.  These whispers sound so private and yet because the sound fills the air, they also seem meant for everyone who is there to listen.

That particular night, which was cool and quiet, leaning on the windowsill, with the yellow moon picking up the gold of the corn, took me back to when I was a girl, helping with the harvest, remembering how those thin golden spears prickled when they came into contact with skin. There was an enchantment there then and it’s still there now.

As I stood there, I thought of cornfields and other fields of grain growing all over the world and it seemed to me that these fields with their precious harvests were as involved with the world as we are.  If that was the case, then, for the first time, I knew that the corn was whispering its love and hope and concern for the world, exactly as we do ourselves.

      THE CORNFIELDS AT PRAYER

So the long cool night begins
And through the quiet darkness
I thought I heard the corn stalks talk
Of all the whispered night-time prayers
Drifting over the fields,
Setting the corn to its own prayer whispering.

Then I heard the corn stalks talk
Of all the little living prayers.
The lovely hares leaping
And the small creatures seeking
The bread of life in the earth beneath them,
And quiet lovers walking the poppied grasses,
Breathing promises and prayers
Into the listening darkness.

I know I heard the corn stalks talk
Of the old traditions of hay-making and stooking,
Of sowing and reaping,
Of the laughter of bare armed innocents driven 
to distraction
By those thin shining spears prickling and stippling,
Until they almost longed to leave
The praying cornfields whispering.

I expect, though, that the corn stalks talk
Of different things
On the bleak plains of grief, for instance,
Or on the long shades of despair,
Taking for their own the bone bare prayer
Of the suffering heart bleeding into the suffering air.
All is loss and lamentation,
Until they sing of a strong and eternal love
That is forever sowing and forever reaping
Love at the beginning and love at the ending.
So the prayers of the world are heard
In the whispering cornfields prayer.

© 2018 Gwen Grant

GARDEN OPERA

    GARDEN OPERA

The blackbird sends
Notes of gold
Drifting over the garden,
Turning colour into music.
The singing,
Strong and sweet,
Calling memories to mind
Of sunny days,
Of gold touching
Thoughtful faces,
Of sudden rain
On lovely evenings,
Of drowsy flowers
Dripping melodies
From sunlit fingers.

Long blue notes
Gathering sparkling reds, yellows,
Oranges and sweeping greens
Together.

Until the red robin
Hustles in,
Its fierce and perfect song
Scattering everything
To the four winds.
Plunging a startled world
Into a new opera
Demanding attention.

The soft sigh
Of a butterfly wing,
The smoky croak
Of a frog in the river,
The harsh shout of a crow
Adding their own notes
Of joy on this golden
Summer morning.

         ©2021 Gwen Grant.

  THE FIRST DAISY

             THE FIRST DAISY

Sunshine,
Threading through the garden,
Touching each blade of grass. 

Turning the first daisy
Into a little pulse of light,
Staying just out of  reach
Of the cat’s lazy paw. 

Until it pounces,
Catching the sun
In its sharp white claws, 

Turning it into a net of glory. 

  ©2025 GWEN GRANT

HARVEST AND THE SCHOLAR

Not harvest time, no, but the fields and woods and hedgerows are
full of  the promise of lovely things here already or yet to come.
Whatever,   these glorious  harvests have their beginnings here.

    HARVEST AND THE SCHOLAR

Now is the time of the dreaming harvest,
When love walks the quiet garden,
Resting under the apple tree and blessing
All the little miracles. 

Blessing the black berry, dark as night and beautiful.
Blessing the hips and haws, their tiny tongues of fire,
Startling crimson, burning red in the tight green hedgerows.
Blessing the fat yellow apples, ripe upon the tree,
Yellow as the mid-day sun rising. 

The scholar sits in front of love, frayed to the bone with living,
Flayed to the soul with loss and longing,
Lamenting lost harvests when all the years were deserts,
All the days were dust, and the wintered wood of lost hopes trembling,
Made the heart a place where harvest was never going to happen.

Yet love murmured only of love.
Blessing the scholar; blessing this, the fathomless miracle.
Murmuring of tiny joys that once had starred the deserts,
Murmuring of love and small horns of plenty
That once had sprung from the dust of sightless days,
Unseen.  Unknown.  Forgotten.
‘Remember,’ breathed love. ‘Remember.’ 

And, remembering, the scholar took from the hand of love
The wintered wood, now bright with fruit and leaf and blossom,
Bright now with hope and love and passion,
Thanks giving for this living harvest safely gathered in. 

                                                                © 2016 Gwen Grant

A SHORT TIME LATER

I wrote this companion poem to GOOD FRIDAY.  

A SHORT TIME LATER

Full of leaf
The world is.
Full of stem and stalk,
Leaf and tree.
Full of apple blossom,
Yellow dandelions and tiny filaments
Blowing everywhere.

Full of lazy snails
Creeping towards dinner.
Full of moths fluttering
Away from hot lights,
Avoiding lit-up candles.

Full of whip-smart ants
Cogitating, thinking hard thoughts
Of nipping and biting,
Of hurting and marking,
Of green leaf cutting.

Full of colour
The world is.
Full of chlorophyll,
Shape and little leaf veins.
Full of silver lines shining.
Where lazy snails danced
As ants devoured a green apple fallen.

Full of leaf,
The world is.
Full of stem and stalk,
Leaf and tree.

Full of spiders.

Tiny, tiny spiders
Weaving tiny, tiny webs
To wrap around cold and frightened shoulders,
To catch apple blossom falling,
To start this lovely world with Love,
All over again.

©2025 Gwen Grant