BRIGHT NEW MORNING

Waking in a morning
To that first startling recognition
Of being alive,
Alive, and to a certain extent, kicking,

We approach the mirror
With caution,
Blinking at our reflection,
Thinking we look a bit older
Than we did yesterday morning.

This is the point at which, sensibly,
We quote a touch of philosophy:
‘I think, therefore I am.’
That’s what the man said, obviously.
Whatever!
We’re glad we woke again.

                      © 2020 Gwen Grant

I wrote this poem many years ago but can still remember the chair I sat in
to write it, the particular writing pad I had and the certain type of pen I
used.  It carries a lot of memories of people and times long gone.

   THE GRACE OF LOVE

Tenderly, let memory slide
From you to me
And me to you.
Gently, let time’s long tide
Wash over me
And over you.
From what remembered things
Are left behind,
From light to dark
We’ll pick and choose and find,
And use the whole
To heal and bind,
You to me
And me to you.

            © 1970 GWEN GRANT

  A MINUTE AFTER MIDNIGHT

The world is dressing already
For a day of loveliness.

New dreams poised to take over
From all the old dreams
Frayed at the edges.

Hope patching the tattered pieces
Until you can’t even see the join.

                       © 2020 Gwen Grant

 

Lucy Mangan – The Guardian  Online  – Books for children
to read at this difficult time, include my ‘PRIVATE-KEEP OUT!’
where she says ‘..a book that has kept me laughing from the age
of ten and throughout the three and a half decades since..’  It would
give me great happiness to know that, through all the current
difficulties, my book still makes children laugh.

 

                        LOVE AFFAIR

The air was bitter last night, coming from the far North,
Farther north than the top of this small island,
On, out and beyond to Russia, to the Russian Steppes,
That fabulous name I once heard on the lips of my father.
Its frosty winter wind swirling over us, skirts full of wolves and ice,
Mountains and grasslands and unimaginable fables.

This is a place whose very name freezes my fingers,
Makes a wild untidy nest of my frozen hair,
As if those immense mountains of light and shadow,
Of frost and ice were reaching down to touch me
Standing in the top hallway in the soft light of the night light,
Unable to sleep, unable to caress the darkness,
Bare feet cold on the white wooden floor.

The Russian Steppes love me.  I know it.  I have never been there
But what does that matter when I know them and they know me,
Waiting patiently, stormily, for my lightest call, coming to wherever I am.
Great mountains and meadows, silver waters and frozen valleys
Crash over the world in their haste to be at my side.
My fingers tremble as I pull rocks out of the path of glittering waters.
Fold one mountain over another, counterpane them with love.

A sudden car rolling up the street nudges me.  Time to sleep.
But before I go, I put those remote and perfect mountains
In my garden, tucking them into the empty fields,
Warming their craggy toes in oak tree and willow,
Watching their aristocratic faces until they put on misty crowns
And fade away, my love travelling with them.

This is one love affair that will never be over.

                                                        © 2020 Gwen Grant

As a girl, we lived in a small row of terraced housing on an equally small street with other equally small streets around us, right on the cusp of the country.  Round the corner of our street was a row of houses with an alley set in between them.  I hated going into this alley but the old woman in the end house, right at the bottom, sold odd bits of things, like a cupful of sugar, a jug of milk, a slice of cheese, and every time I went, I was convinced she was a witch, a magician, and I certainly watched my manners when I was stood at her door.

 CAGED LINNET SINGING

I was always afraid of gypsy alley,
Where, outside the last house
A Linnet in a cage sang its little melodies.
Standing on the doorstep, too frightened to move,
I handed over the coins to pay
For the mashing of black tea I had been sent for,
All the while listening to that little bird singing,
Each note pure as a flower,
Perfect as the seashell in my pocket.

Yet I was glad when a twist of paper,
Tea safely folded in, was pushed into my fingers.
‘I like your Linnet,’ I whispered, and the tough old face,
Beaten into a teak sculpture by the sun, hardened,
Beaky nose and beaky eyes becoming the Linnet,
The gypsy magician singing my terrified feet
Down the dark alley and onto the street.  

Now, in my bed, candle long since blown out,
Quiet under the starry darkness,
I can hear the gypsy witch singing,
Her Linnet wings fluttering against the window.

                                                ©2020 Gwen Grant