EARLY NOVEMBER MORNING

The sun is pouring through the windows and has real warmth.
Other mornings bring the early fog which hangs about in the
gardens and fields. The best is when the winter frost makes the
world shine. I’m once again recovering from a virus and hoping
this sunshine will, finally, see me free and clear. Maybe even
a visit to Scotland?!


EARLY NOVEMBER MORNING

Ghosts in tall trees
Standing guard over the garden,
Flouncing into starry air
When the bus headlights
Disturb them.

Next door’s dog kicking up a fuss
Barking, yelping, yapping
At what it couldn’t see.
Feeling threatened
By invisible enemies.
Almost human, really.

Cat jumping the fence and vanishing,
Pushing wispy clouds before her lovely body,
Curling her tail around the uncommitted
Wisps and tendrils.
Drawing them in.

That’s the ghosts gone for sure.
Nobody likes to feel inferior.

©2025 GWEN GRANT

If you would like to use this poem, please get in touch.

GOAT IN THE MOONLIGHT     

When there were goats in the paddock, the big one, and he was
really big, was very aggressive. He bashed down our fence and
stalked into the garden. When I tried to shoo him back onto the
grass, he lowered his head, then started to rattle his feet at me.
There was a lot more of him than of me so I backed carefully away.
While he was there with his little company of goats, he went
exactly where he pleased. I found him very scary. He’s the closest
to the Great God Pan I have ever seen. Now we have a flock of
sheep who follow anyone who comes to take a short cut.
But they are absolutely non-aggressive, for which I am truly thankful! 


         GOAT IN THE MOONLIGHT        

The big goat’s ghost is in the paddock,
He must have forgotten to take it with him,
For when I look out of the window at midnight,
I see him stomping down the grass,
Looking for trouble.

Smashing everything that stands in his way,
Rearing up against the apple tree,
Ripping the apples from the branches
With huge brown teeth.

Just as I think of banging on the glass
To scare him away, he sees me,
His wicked eyes glinting in the moonlight,
Full of hate, full of the desire to kill.
Starting towards me, his great body moving
As fast as a shadow blown in the wind.

I am deathly afraid.

Until the moonlight dissolves him,
Turning the night back to normal.
I wonder where he has gone,
Knowing there is no comfort for me
Until I know exactly
Where he has found a place to hide.

                        ©2021 Gwen Grant.

SNAIL PACE

SNAIL PACE

There isn’t a soul to be seen in the silent street
This early in the morning.

Until the night cat stalks down the pavement,
Light from the street lamps doing its best
To show up the green fringe of grass and weeds
Revelling in that bit of empty space
Around the bottom of the fencing.

Where it looks as if the local snails
Had a bit of a hoe-down dancing.
Leaving silver trails criss-crossing the concrete.
A tiny shine here, a little glitter there,
All gone by morning.

Unless the cat treads its paws wherever he wants to.
Padding away the last of the silver festivities with him.

But why should he care?
When no-one ever thought to ask him to join in.

©2020 GWEN GRANT

SHINE ON

There is a beautiful Magnolia tree in the garden next to ours and it seems
to change almost daily, one day full of flowers, the next full of buds and then
raggy and desolate with dead and dying leaves.  Except!  Behind the leaves
are the new tight little buds waiting for their moment in the sun.  Then,
sitting in a car park, staring out at a scrubby piece of neglected woodland,
I saw the bright berries of the holly and the determined onslaught of the ivy. 

SHINE ON 

Next door’s Magnolia
Has turned brown.
All leaves gone,
Except the one
That shakes its little
Brown body
In the winter wind,
Excited by new buds
Breaking through.
Pushing its own slow dying
To one side.

Down the lane,
Red berries
Beam their small cheer
Through the frost bitten branches,
Keeping a wary eye
On the jealous Ivy,
Darkly waiting its chance
To put out their fire.
Always ready to extinguish
Any spark of hope.

                                  ©2019 Gwen Grant

 

A SMALL MISUNDERSTANDING

children praying

  A SMALL MISUNDERSTANDING

This was the first prayer ever taught us,
Long before we could understand
Or be aware of our need for prayer.

Standing in ragged rows, eyes closed, we began,
‘Our Father, who art in heaven.’
But through a small misunderstanding
This became a little prayer for
‘Our Arthur, who art in Devon.’

Still, even not knowing Arthur,
We were happy that our prayer
Put that little intrepid wanderer
Into such safe and loving care.

                                               ©2018 Gwen Grant