LOOKING ACROSS THE TAY

I first blogged this poem in October 2017 when blogging was absolutely new and strange to me and I was unaware of how much pleasure it would bring.

We have a favourite place in Scotland that overlooks the River Tay, so we often just sit there and watch the water.  The Tay is also known as the ‘Silver’ Tay and it really does shine silver.  It’s a very beautiful river.

Behind where we sit, there is an Old People’s Care Home and the ladies are often sat in their little conservatory.  Although they are old and sometimes fragile, you can still see in them the lovely young women they once were.  That they can see the Tay, too, must be a tremendous pleasure to them.

This is the poem I wrote about that Care Home and the ladies.

                        LOOKING ACROSS THE TAY

The swans are out again,
Shimmering on the dark water,
Dipping into the splashes of moonlight
they become moonlight themselves,
Every feather sculpted in light.
Little white snowflake swans
Drifting down the silent river.

Behind us lies the Care Home,
Where glass walls welcome the lovely moon
And one lone bed
With a quilt as red as roses,
Lies empty in a corner.    

The old ladies who live there,
Watching the white and sparkling swans
Sailing on the glittering water,
Dreamily send their pretty, remembered bodies,
Down that golden moonlit path.
Frail little birds
Who soon overtake the swans.

This river and heaven
Must have a lot in common.              

©GWEN GRANT

 

THE GLORY MARCH

This poem is from a series of poems I wrote for the Southwell Minster (Southwell, Nottinghamshire, UK,) magazine.  As some were specifically meant for children, I invented a class of children with their imaginary teacher, Miss McPherson.  As I went from poem to poem, I got to know Miss McPherson and her children well and was very fond of them all.  It was good to read the responses from people of all ages who read these poems.  They were published in other magazines but I remain as attached to them now as I was when I  first wrote them.

             THE GLORY MARCH

‘Why did the chicken cross the road?’
Miss McPherson cried.
‘Why, children,’ she said, before we could speak,
‘It was to get to the other side.
Like Joshua crossing the Jordan River,
With his people, the Israelites.’
Then Miss McPherson told the story
Of Joshua and his march of glory.

‘Moonlight glittered on the tents of evening,
Its silver light all glittering and gleaming
Into the eyes of the people waiting
For Joshua to lead them across the Jordan,
Through the pearly dawn of an early morning.
In their tents, they all heard the roaring,
The rushing and the racing of the furious waters,
That made them afraid and set them awailing,
Wailing and weeping that the river would drown them.
But Joshua slept the whole of the night,
For he’d asked God to see them right.’

When Miss McPherson stopped for breath,
Harry put up his hand and said,
‘End of story.  That lot’s dead!’
But Miss McPherson shook her head.
‘Not so, Harry,’ she grinned and chortled.
‘Why, when Joshua reached the banks of the Jordan,
With the Israelites ranged all about and around him,
The water had gone!  Not a drop remaining!
God had emptied that river and stopped the water,
So that Joshua and his people could cross without danger,
To the rich green shores of the land of Canaan.’

We cheered!  We cried, ‘Well done, God!’ we clapped.
‘So, remember, children,’ Miss McPherson said,
You can cross any river you have to cross
When God is at your back.’
And Clyde muttered, ‘Yeah!  Right on!’

                                  © 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.

                                  © Gwen Grant

 

STARTING OVER

STARTING OVER

Late love,
With all its tenderness,
Turns us all
Into navigators,
Archaeologists,
Gently blowing the dust of years
From the site of yesterday.
Sometimes finding the splendours
Of Carter’s Tutankhamen,
Sometimes bringing to the light
A tiny twist of yellow gold,
Its brightness hidden from invaders.

Cautious, careful,
We read books that tell us
How to discover each other.
One mystery sliding alongside another.
Two historians coming together,
Compiling a definitive account
Of their life and times.

You know what?
A hand reaching out for a hand,
A smile answering a smile
Breaks it all down
To where any Lover could build a castle,
Or a small shed if wanted,
With a water feature on the patio.
The oceans of the world
Lapping the edge of the garden.

                                  © Gwen Grant

LET IT BE

             

When I was a child, I was sent away for a year for my health.  Everything there was the exact opposite to my home.  No bright colours as at home and, of course, with so many children to care for, instead of love, there was an impartial interest and care.  There are many times we would not go back to and this was one of them.

          LET IT BE

Last night,
The apple tree turned white,
Its wide skirts trembling
As if some fabulous ballerina
Was dancing over the grass.

For a moment,
I was taken back
To my childhood.
Looking at an apple tree
Through a window,
Where my finger nail
Scraped long strands of frost.

Then I was a long way from home.
A long way from love and colour,
Close to dark uniforms,
To squares of aprons
Crackling in snowy starchiness.
White caps like fearful torches
Breaking the dusky violet night,
Making me weep for home.

                                     Now making me glad that none of us
                                     Can inhabit the past.

                             © Gwen Grant