VIOLET TIME

violets

   VIOLET TIME

The violets are out again,
Growing alongside the Blackthorn,
The small grass,
The sharp marauding holly.

Forever lighting the darkness,
With their tiny violet glory.

               © 2020 Gwen Grant

HERON FLYING HOME

heron_nb_tcm9-94090


HERON FLYING HOME

There they all are, one after the other,
Herons going home.
Black shapes against a fading sky,
Beautiful and prehistoric,
None of them looking
At the shadowed trees below them.

Until one crashes the dark branches
To land in moon touched mud
At the side of the silent river.
Looking a bit like a witch
On a wicked broomstick,
Scratchy twigs sweeping
All the little creatures
Out of its imperious way.

Now the trees in the heronry
Are heavy with sleeping birds,
Each quietly contained,
All wrapped up in themselves.

The first stars pricking the sky,
The long dark fish in the water
Flashing a sudden brief silver,
Sharp eyes promising
To eat them in the morning.

Whilst, we, made of earth and sky,
Fold into the stars.  Fold into the trees.
And, at the last, fold into the heron.

                                   © 2020 Gwen Grant

THE KILLING FROST

Prayer-of-Japan-Cherry-Blossoms-Reiji-Hiramatsu

 

   THE KILLING FROST

Winter, and the last snow of the year,
Hard frost following.
Its glittering fingers weaving
Over the cherry tree,
Tickling the tight red buds
Which would not open
To the guile of winter
And the cold cold sunlight,
To the spiteful icy kisses
Of the killing frost,
Killing the promise
Of the cherry blossom.

Listen, Lovers.
When frost touches the heart,
It’s all over.

                © 2020 Gwen Grant           

A SHORT HISTORY OF A COMPLEX LIFE

dragon

 

 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

ONLY CONNECT

Carousel Day (25th July) | Days Of The Year


       ONLY CONNECT

That place where you should be
Is empty,
But I’ve been thinking
That maybe if I learnt
To send signals into nowhere,
You would hear them
And somehow,
After all these years,
We could connect.
Begin again. 

                     © 2020 Gwen Grant

 

PLACES OF INTEREST

beautiful street


PLACES OF INTEREST

There are no more
Unshed tears
Or unshared laughter
Now these Lovers
Have found each other.

Their voices
Are like the wind,
Blowing from one word
To another.

Telling about their deeply secret world
In which the other is a stranger.

Each of them the street map
To their lives and secret longings,
To their griefs and their rejoicings
To the inner places they have lived in.

Making small improvements, of course,
To their own ‘places of interest’
As
they went.

        © 2020 Gwen Grant

HOME TIME

dream-house

 

       HOME TIME

Night falls
And we are a long way
From home.
The silent fields,
Lying flat against the moon,
Placing shadows where shadows
Should be.
No hard corners.

Quaking grass shivering
As a small wind passes through.
Wild roses and yellow honeysuckle
Scenting the air.
And the whole of it so loved,
We begin to think we belong here.
To think we have a home here.

When, really, we know
We have no permanent home anywhere.
None that we have ever recognised
Anyway.

At least, none with a familiar structure.

                                         ©2020 Gwen Grant