Night walks are my favourite walks, not as often now as they used
to be and not as adventurous, either. I’m almost at the point of down
the road and back , which isn’t as bad as it may seem as we live in a
quieter part of the village with hedgerows and fields and patches of the
woodland I used to play in when I was a child.    This is a picture of a bit
of a night wood waiting for morning.

MIDNIGHT WALK

      Walking through the dark trees,
      My steps sending little puffs of dust
      Over the small curling ferns crouching.
     The faint shine of a white petal
     Breaks through the intense darkness,
     Until a sudden throw of moonlight
     Brings the pale anemones,
     The golden celandine,
     Into perfect life on the woodland floor.

     I hear the soft shuffling of birds in their nests,
     Heads tucked under their wings,
     Deeply sleeping.
     Then the tiny bubbling of water running
     Down the little, half-hidden stream,
     Throwing the odd diamond drop
     Onto the yellow primrose.

     Here, small brown creatures
     Slip in and out of the freezing water,
     Icy, from the still snow laden hills so faraway
     This wood never thinks of them.
     Nor do we, until, we, too, are frozen.

     Out of the trees, onto the edge of the fields
     That stretch into the darkness,
     The small growings rustling an excited invitation
     To walk the night
     Over ploughed earth and stony frost sparkling
     To the far wood, which magic is held to own.
     But I turn back, not ready to meet a veiled magician
     Of spite, dead things and stagnant water.
     And the trees swallow me
     As a shadow is swallowed by darkness.

     Now the wood shakes itself,
     The trees whispering of this returned presence
    Walking their quiet and mossy paths.
     And I turn for home,
     To the lovely fragrance of wild roses
     In the hedgerows.

                                    ©2018 Gwen Grant

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.