I wrote this poem for the MacMillan book of MONSTER POEMS chosen
by Brian Moses, and  chose it to put up thinking it might be enjoyed as
a bit of light relief, unless, of course, you do have a monster at the bottom 
of your garden!

THE WORST MONSTER

The worst monster in the world lives at the bottom of my garden.
She lives in the bushes just past the apple tree|
And never comes out unless she’s wearing her frock of old shadows
Patched with bits of night.
Plus, a little bright ribbon in her hair.
I can always see her ribbon, like eyes, really, shining in the dark.
‘You can’t be scared of a monster who wears a ribbon,’ people laugh.
‘Oh, can’t you!’ I say.
‘You should be here when she creeps into the house and lies in wait
on the stairs.
Or when she sidles into my room and hides under the bed.
I bet you’d be scared!’
I can handle that.
Well, most of the time, I can, but maybe not at midnight when the church clock
Chimes twelve times,
Calling out witches and wizards, floaty ghosts and hungry monsters
Who tap you on the shoulder and breathe down the back of your neck.
Yet, none of them are as scary as my monster,
Who wears a ribbon in her hair and hides at the bottom of the garden,
Waiting to get me.
The worst time, the scariest time,
Is not when she’s hiding in the bushes just past the apple tree.
It’s when she stands up and without taking one foot off the ground,
Catches the moon in her dark mouth and swallows it!
Then, I can’t see anything,
Not even her ribbon,
And I am more afraid than ever.

                                                          (c) 2005 Gwen Grant

 

After a journey over the Derbyshire hills when Winter itself seemed to take shape and form, this was how I remembered it. A place of utter beauty and totally unforgiving.  It was so enchanting, even though we had to drive really slowly to avoid skidding, I couldn’t take my eyes off the world around me.

                  A DERBYSHIRE WINTER

 Yesterday, we met that great icicled old man, Winter,
Striding across the tops of the Derbyshire peaks,
Flinging furious fists of snow on to the roads,
Stones, dips, hollows and hedgerows.

The hills and fields were bone white,
And white to the bone where he had passed.
Even the bleak and edgy rocks had given in,
Hiding their lovely blackness
Out of sight of the old man’s fury.
For who knew what he would do next? 

Too late!  He’s done it.
That tree standing alone in the emptiness
Should have shown a bit more respect.
Bowed its aching head
Under the snowy crown he had given it,
But somehow it shook the snow off instead.
And that great icicled old man spat spiteful
Gobbets of icy breath across it
Until, for one brief and beautiful moment,
The tree shone and dazzled in the thin sun,
Then broke under the old terror’s icy gift and was gone.  

Oh, winter, you could have pity on us.
You could pity the owl and the crow,
The mouse, the fox, the shrew and the stoat.
You could pity the glancing beauty of the dying fish
Striking up through the frozen water.
But you won’t, will you?
Even though you could afford to.
For such splendour and icy glory,
So enchanting it catches the breath
And causes the heart to fall back,
Will never willingly leave these peaks
To the wind and rumpled grass.

                                            © 2018 Gwen Grant

To Sam, the fox is the enemy – it steals his hens.
To Roberta, it is a beautiful wild creature in need of protection.
The mystery of a stolen tiara brings the two children and the
fox together in a strange sequence of events. A  country setting
and fascinating glimpse into the ways of foxes.
Available on KINDLE and DRAFT2DIGITAL.

 

            OUT OF THE DARKNESS

When it’s all over bar the shouting,
When the last tear has fallen
And the shocked heart has settled
Once more to its beating.
When the requiem for the lost
Has played its final bleak murmuring
And sorrow brings the broken to their knees,
That is when all that is left is love,
Love is all that is left.

But what good is left-over love
To the shattered heart?
What good is hope
Lying broken in the darkness?

Out of the darkness come the rains
To fill the dry beds of rivers
With water moving silky as young women sleeping,
Rolling and twisting, twisting and turning,
Their long bony feet stretching thinly behind them;
When trees come to leaf like young men leaping
Up branches to touch the first floor of heaven,
Strong hands full of leaves, now full of flowerings
And dry deserts blooming.  

So when all is said and done,
The requiem over and silence soft fallen.
That is when all that is left is love
                 And love is all.

                                                     ©2019 Gwen Grant    

Early morning mist, Ladybirds and the young black cat
all there when it was still dark.

DAY IN WAITING

The mist came slinking in.
Very late. Gone 4.00. And cold.
Freezing cold.
I watched it pleat itself down the street,
One tireless fold after another,
Until all pleats and folds joined together,
A vast grey souffle of unseeing.

That’s the silent world
Showing off its power again.
Snow falling. Ice forming. Wind blowing.
There’s no end to it.
No-one ever presses the OFF switch
So stars fall without a whisper,
Enormous ships on enormous oceans
Sink without trace.
Relatives never to be seen again
And home sweet home a new place altogether.

Still, not to be dramatic.
That tissue-paper mist uncurls this time
Before any damage is done.

There’s that fat cat light on his paws,
Thoughtfully eyeing a small rustling in the hedgerow,
And on a cold white window-sill
A Ladybird lies dead and totally done for.
A brooch pinned on a day in waiting,
Making a whole posse of angels weep.

Making us weep, too.
Wondering what comes after this.

                                           © 2024 Gwen Grant

There’s always something to see at night!

FROSTY NIGHT AND JOGGER

They’re a sleepy lot
Down our street,
With the yellow lamplight
Shining on the ground,
Waiting for the first jogger
To come huffing and puffing
Down the silent morning.

Frost drifting through the air,
Tiny white dots of magic
Coming from nowhere.

The night cat is on the prowl,
Shaking its head to rid its fur
Of the tiny icy coldness.
Finding a bit of left-over fish
And a few frozen chips
Thrown down in a brown paper bag.
Still hungry. Still furious.

The dog in the warm kennel whining
For its owners to come home
Take him with them.
Take him away from the fox sniffing
Around the white garden,
Wondering if the tiny dog or the cat
Were small enough for supper.

The jogger suddenly slipping,
Landing with a crash and cursing.
Getting to his feet, bouncing.

The yellow lamplight growing brighter
And the fox eyeing him, suddenly tired
Of being cold and hungry.

© 2024 Gwen Grant