Glass Blower           
                                                                                                             
Booted and gloved, she moves with steady grace
round grimy floors and furnaces,
reverently working with primeval fire
and a burning urge
to blow beauty into the waiting air.
She raises the plain medieval flute to her lips,
plays a crystal scale of glowing liquid song
filling the blackened room
with shimmering harmony.

Openings

On the fifth Thursday, we were all there,
saucepans, football rattles,
‘Land of Hope and Glory’ on a trumpet,
when the strange man from the corner,
the one who never speaks, came out,
stood at his gate and clapped.
We waved, he waved then went back in.

Tomorrow I will leave strawberries on his path.

Christine Griffin

If you have any thoughts on these poems,  Christine Griffin would be pleased to hear them.