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Grace Alexander

of

Groton, CT, US

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The Late Bet Lind

by

Grace Alexander

Her eyes were the palest of blue; but blank
to memories of her past and mine.
Her daily adventures, fascinating as well as fabrication.
Strange it was only after her demise
I realised just how fascinating she had always been.

Her face was the palest of pink; but soft
and wrinkled, like the skin round my elbow
or like the folds of skin on a chubby baby.
Strange it was only after her demise
I realised that she too had once a baby been.

Her hair was the palest silver grey; but fine
as a spider's silky web, or the finest of silks.
Belying its wiry appearance.
Strange it was only after her demise
I realised what a fine lady she had always been.

Her body deflated and dawdling; but hinting
at great hidden strength, that kept her fighting
to live, even after all appreciation had ceased.
Strange it was only after her demise
I realised what a fighter she had always been.

Her voice was soft and gentle; but audible
it said nothing in particular, nor was it always understood
it didn't matter. She was my granny and I loved her.
Strange how it was only after her demise
I realised I had always loved her.


Sweeping Shadows

by

Grace Alexander


Slowly, the cloud slides from the face of the moon
Bringing forth from the darkness of night
The trees no longer in shadowed gloom,

who follow the course of the river, soon
to be flooded with heavenly light, as
slowly, the cloud slides from the face of the moon,

awakening the hunters need to consume
the smaller prey. Hiding in fright, under
the trees no longer in shadowed gloom

Standing tall, if black as death and doom,
while the valley glows. A romantics delight, as
slowly, the cloud slides from the face of the moon,

Illuminating the stars above this room, whose
ceiling of velvet, creates a wondrous sight.
The trees no longer in shadowed gloom

their branches and leaves to the wind attune.
The wild, yet calming waters, bright, as
slowly, the cloud slides from the face of the moon,

making shadows race, as though chased by a broom
across the mountain's brow, lit full height, as
slowly, the cloud slides from the face of the moon
The trees no longer in shadowed gloom.