Lullabies are for little children
Promised lovely dreams
And gentle wakening.

I am no child,
My dreams exhaust me
And I awaken tired and weary.

My lullaby is of plain song,
Stern, elusive, promising nothing
Yet, still singing.

The long authority of hope,
Of Love forever holding
The promise of a new beginning.

So lie you down and close your eyes,
Neither fret and do not cry,
Love itself will sing your lullaby.

©2021 Gwen Grant.



He loved flowers.
Couldn’t walk down the street
Without glancing into every garden.

Roses always a favourite,
Whilst the joyful gaiety of the delphinium
Convinced him once again
The sky had a lot to do with it.
Scattering the flower with a handful
           of bright blue pieces.
Tiny petals of freedom.

He loved most
The minty green perfection, leaf and stem
Of quiet carnation.
A delicate beauty wearing its best frilly dress
For a dance of stately, slow, seduction.

Whilst the wild and burning glory
Of the chrysanthemum,
Set his own heart blazing.

Once, he stopped in front of Henry’s garden,
The neglected patch of ground
Covered in tiny yellow dandelions,
Flowers which expected nothing
Turning a small dark square into a slice of sunshine.

Thinking of those long ago peace people
Thrusting flowers into barrels of guns,
He understood it was time to go,
The path to town unfurling in front of him.

©2021 Gwen Grant

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I expect Aliens already know how to fly,
That this is how they will come to our attention.
Just drifting out of the sky
Along with the falling leaves,
Transfixed by horror
At what we have allowed to happen.

Well, I guess they probably
Have the same emotions we do,
In which case, horror
Is the only possible response
To the hate shown in the world.

Maybe they won’t stay.
Unable to embrace a people
Who have so harshly destroyed
The earth, the sky, the air, the seas.
All the lovely things they were given.

Maybe nothing would persuade them to stay
And they would drift away
Exactly how they came.

Not wanting to be associated 
With the shame of so much killing.

© 2021 Gwen Grant.



By Autumn
We were ready,
The big oak drawer
Full to the brim with clippings
Of old wool coats, moth eaten skirts,
Hopeless socks and torn cotton shirts,
All mixed up with that candy striped dress
Big enough to wear last Whitsuntide,
Too small now, washed out and cast aside.

Over Summer
We had been
Washing old potato sacks, giving them an iron,
Sewing them together with strong dark twine.
Pegging all the clippings in until every colour beamed.
We made circles, squares and one green diamond
Out of a worn coat sleeve.

Then pushing the big table with its red plush pompoms
to the door,
We laid our beautiful new rag rug down on the scrubbed
white wooden floor.
When everyone agreed, it was the loveliest rug our street
had ever seen.

©2021 Gwen Grant