~

none should call

themselves poet,

leave that name 

for others to confer,

write fine words

in rhyme or not,

set them free, let

the world concur

*

© GRS 01/26

~

bitter weather, is friend

to these tawdry fallow days

of bare dismal January, 

the red green and golden

glamour now neatly packed 

away, is replaced by dull 

pallid lean ambivalent greys,

with all anticipation spent

we paddle listlessly through

a month that promises

little to deliver even less,

it’s a time for finding lost 

things, mending damage

and taking stock, a time

for change, of intent, habit, 

discovery and preparation

for future growth.

*

© GRS 01/26

on winter mornings

between the hours 

of three and four, the

house moans with

a creak or two as if

to hunker down,

~

thirty-eight winters

have come and gone

and still it grumbles

albeit passively, almost 

apologetically, as the

overnight temperature

plummets outside,

~

this house has been a 

silent witness to three

generations of my kin,

stories have been writ 

on its walls, children

measured beneath door 

frames inch by inch, pets 

have lived and died here,

nervous future spouses 

brought for Sunday teas,

~

on winter mornings

between the coldest

hours of three and four,

I often wake to hear 

its voice and give a 

reassuring answer as 

a thank you in return

© GRS 01/26

~

On New Year’s Eve 

I met a philosopher on 

a tiny clapper bridge,

an aged fellow with

an unkempt beard

and a walking frame,

he looked to search

the babbling waters

with steel blue eyes

consternation across

his furrowed brow,

absentmindedly he 

asked if I understood 

the cycle of water and 

whether like he, I believed

that some of the water

rushing by us both might

have graced the feet

of dinosaurs.

© GRS1/26

~

on the first visit it’s 

possible to negotiate

a little, more of a 

forewarning to raise

awareness, give you time 

to get things in order,

wake you up, talk about 

timescales, plan ahead,

the next time she comes,

it’s all in the detail,

what when where how, 

a thorough briefing

no stone unturned,

then it’s the big day,

most people dislike the 

sudden ones most,

although it won’t be a

surprise for you, and

although it’s a shame

you can’t tell them, please

don’t try to leave a note

trust me, it will drive

them mad for the rest 

of their days,

when the time comes

for you, it will actually

be a celebration of sorts 

a bit of an adventure,

and that last big question 

in life that you’ll finally, 

be able to lay to rest

*

© GRS 12/25

~

there’s a place I often pass,

where a half-eaten apple core

the remnants of a hasty

working lunch has been

tossed wantonly through

the window of a passing 

car, taken root and left

ten years undisturbed,

buried beneath other 

myriad roadside detritus,

today, on an uncut verge 

beside the busy A422, 

stands a perfectly shaped

magnificent Braeburn

laden with plump ripe fruit, 

never harvested, a proud

crimson beacon amongst 

the dowdy bracken.

*

© GRS 12/25

~

the table is long,

a chair at each end

in one sits an ogre

in the other a fool,

one wears a grimace

one wears a smirk

which seem to change

places now and again,

both speak different

languages translated

by an educated parrot,

the ogre flies a kite

shaped like a diamond,

the fool holds an over-

inflated red balloon,

in the centre of the table

a large golden bag marked

hypocrisy is emptied by

the handful by both, who,

if the deal is good, might well

yet salvage peace

*

© GRS 12/25

~

night wears on

strange things 

happen in the sky,

angry bruises form

briefly stare down

then gently dissipate

indolently, insolently,

leaving charcoal and 

paler smoked grey,

planets and myriad 

stars pulse, vying for 

attention before

losing interest 

in my audience,

daylight dressed

in pink marbling

heralds dawn, a 

sorely inadequate 

name for such a 

scintillating event

*

© Graham R Sherwood 12/25

~

just two lines is all I ask

two simple, perfect lines I 

could be remembered by,

twelve or so clever words 

that might happily sit there

side by side and selflessly

hold each other to the light

and will prove my worth,

two lines that will make a 

reader envious, stupefied,

that I may lay down my pen

knowing I had made a mark

that all this was worth a jot,

just two lines is all I ask

*

© Graham R Sherwood 12/25

~

caught on a distant wind

portent beneath a sombre moon

the feint rattle of Janus chains

bids this year to end too soon,

faces smart with such a bitter chill

urgent children pray for snow,

sloe gin is bottled, mincemeat made, 

and pickled walnuts soon on the go,

choristers practice carol hymns

decorations once more hold centre stage

poets conjure worthy lines of verse

and hope to grace the Christmas page

*

© Graham R Sherwood 12/25