THOSE BATS!

 













THOSE BATS!

One second beyond twilight
And the bats are out again.

I wish I could rhapsodize
Over their velvety wings,
Their amazing structure,
Not to mention their tiny sharp eyes
Like chips of quartz
Shining in the light.
But I can’t.

And if they really are more scared of me
Than I am of them,
Why is it only me flying
Down the garden path,
Slamming and locking
The back door behind me?

And why can I hear bat laughter
Right through the night
Until early in the morning?

                    ©2020 Gwen Grant

DUCKS AND CHANCES

DUCKS AND CHANCES

The last time we were flooded,
Our garden became a sudden pond
For the three ducks who flew down
To swim in this new and exciting
Stretch of water.

The cat, furious, hissed at them
Through the rain-swept window,
Paws trying to push through the glass.

But as I watched them,
Regretting the lavender and philadelphus,
I decided that from now on
I would be like those ducks and take on
All unexpected chances,
Refusing to be chased away
Until I had at least paddled in the water.

                 ©2020 Gwen Grant

  BLUE TIME IN SPRING TIME

The last time I posted this poem, I was just out of hospital and
stuck in a wheelchair, so this place was just a lovely memory.
Now, one year later, we’ve been in lockdown and still couldn’t
get back for Spring but, as I said then, this is where I want to
visit again, even though we are heading for Autumn.

BLUE TIME IN SPRING TIME 

Walking over them, I half expected to fall
Into the great blue gaiety of a perfect sunny sky,
For the small blue flowers, no bigger than a grain of corn,
Were blue stars under my feet, their eternal beauty
Starring this world through the gentle hand of love. 

There is a deep tenderness in this wood, a deep love,
For here the purple flower, there, the red.
Now a creamy bank of butter yellow blossom gleaming
in the shadows,
Delighting, enchanting, lifting up to their own joyful gaiety
All those who walk under the dappling leaves.
The trees themselves swaying with delighted laughter
At this sunny celebration.

Beyond the blue flowers,
Beyond the pale grey stone and faded tags of leafy gold,
A fish leaps up through the sunlit water,
Glittering blue against the brown washed banks of the lake
drying in the morning sun,
And a swan glides by in slow, grave beauty. 

Down this path the dandelion, that shock headed golden
explosion,
Almost touches the red petals of a heavy blossomed tree,
A tiny goldfinch darting amongst them.
In the distance, a flash of blue as a jay flies to a far horizon,
Whilst a rich darkness shows up the blue black crow.
The squirrel pauses on its tiny orange feet
And the drake flies low, a dash of iridescent blue.
Then the blowing leaves whirl their tiny shadows under the trees
And the blue wash of bluebells turns the forest floor into a
dark blue sea. 

And in a thousand, thousand places,
In the bramble and in the thorn,
In the dark silhouette of twigs lying flush against the blue sky,
In the fallen flowers lying on the grass,
In the purple and the red and the water floating blue.
The blue bells ring this steady proof of love. 

                                                       © 2018 Gwen Grant

A SHORT HISTORY OF A COMPLEX LIFE

 A SHORT HISTORY OF A COMPLEX LIFE

The woman who ate the moon
Lives in the trees down by the river.

Wait!  I tell a lie!

She actually lives on some small landing
Up a flight of stairs halfway to heaven,
Or resides at the bottom of a cellar temporarily,
Standing on dark, unseen tiles,
Cold, mysterious and unsettling.
Looking fantastically familiar
Should you ever catch a glimpse of her.

She has a habit of singing through the dark hours.

Sometimes of how she is made of paper
Inclined, at times, to burst into flame.

Her mind is full of brushed glass pieces
Picked up on the beach, blown lovely
By the steady rushing of the wind-blown sea,
With pebbles, sea-shells, starfish, mermaids
And the bones of the dead rattling amongst them.

After she swallowed the moon, she held it tight within,
Complaining, sometimes, that light shone right through her
And only dragons, biting and marauding, could save her,
Lending her their teeth.

At night, the sky is alive with heroes,
Blazing shields held up and ready to meet the morning.
Great wings of strength and beauty beating behind them
As they go seeking the woman who ate the moon.

But she would only let in
Those who left their shields and wings at home
As she was extremely busy making her own history.

                                                             © 2020 Gwen Grant