things that change swiftly 

can often go unnoticed,

more so those that evolve

slowly, imperceptibly,

~

in youth a man is strong, 

dependable, responsible, 

but with age he unwittingly 

allows himself to become 

someone else’s dubious 

responsibility,

~

striding blindly forward 

he approaches the hidden 

transitional precipice, 

a vertiginous chasm

above a useless utopia

where he forfeits the heft

of fatherhood by crossing 

the waiting Rubicon

*

© Graham R Sherwood 05/26

(I am blessed to be able to meet regularly with a group of old junior school friends. Now in our mid-seventies having gone our separate ways in our teens, we are re-learning each others stories, triumphs and disasters)

~

each month we learn

more from one another,

fragments of our own

personal histories

laid bare freely as if

through exorcism, at

this old place we once

prayed in as children,

as we swim in this warm

bathtub of memories 

a revelatory, astonished

‘I don’t remember that’ 

will cut the air and thus 

another stitch is woven

to our tapestry of youth,

winsome smiles become 

inquisitive frowns as we

understand each other’s 

pasts more clearly,

this bond is special, 

we know we are lucky

*

© Graham R Sherwood 05/26

~

I wake to the hum

of her breathing, warm,

reassuring, long soft 

draughts almost choral, 

my troublesome knee

delivers an anxious but

cordial twinge requesting

an artificial replacement,

it’s a dull Monday,

banks are closed and 

of course, it rains,

she will be cross as there 

are still beans and tomatoes

to plant, we’re giving 

Tasman and Tumbling Tom 

a go this year, everything

outside seems earlier

after the benign winter,

there’s no need to rush so 

I will let her lie

and make tea later

*

© Graham R Sherwood 05/26

~

Puebla Pathos 

(her/she/they)

critics would say that

I just picked her up, 

honestly, I still wonder

myself why I did, it’s 

a fractious relationship 

flowing mostly one way,

I give her the benefit of 

my ever curious doubt, 

due to her sculptured

body and deep brown 

bronzed and shiny skin,

mostly it’s confessional

I can tell her anything 

were she a nun, she

surely be a silent order,

I’m not a religious man

but belief is good,

isn’t it?

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/26

~

an expression 

writers know,

a frenzy of creation

when words drip

freely from the nib,

like falling coins

and must be quickly 

gathered up and 

spent swiftly, lest

they tumble down

the drain, 

forever lost.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/26

~

we were young

the music played

each of us

had a choice,

love or war

flowers or fear

so young but we  

had to choose,

they sang of surf

and sunshine

fear of the bomb 

and nothing left after,

free love or folklore

anthems or heroes

we were young 

the music played

and we chose

being too young 

to care

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/26

~

occasionally you can taste it in the air

a distant unpleasant tang of smoke, metal 

dirt and flesh, a sure sign a war lies just

over the horizon,

were we to be honest life has been good 

for so long and it is easy to forget one’s 

table manners

now the peaceful hum of life

we have enjoyed has begun to growl, rumbling 

like a hungry complaining stomach demanding food,

few still alive remember the last feeding frenzy,

the violence to decide those that were to be fed 

and those left for dead, no doubt war will come

and with it a famine of tolerance,

an empty tomb of common sense

and the immoral debris of man’s polluted avarice

* 

© Graham R Sherwood 04/26

~

nought but a lad

there came that crucial 

age when I was expected

to pick my team, 

little knowing that for good 

or bad it was for life, 

a marriage with no chance 

of divorce,

those eleven men, names 

carved on my heart forever,

pictures pasted on my 

bedroom wall, schoolbooks, 

desks and pencil cases all 

defiled with shields and logos

of that forever team,

sixty-five years have long gone

all those brave men too, 

still remembered like long

lost lovers with a heavy heart 

from that golden year, 1961,

the year my world turned 

upside-down, a year that could 

still be read whichever way up

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/26

~

first there needs to be belief

that somewhere hidden

under the rust,

beneath the stealth

and ravages of time

lies a treasure, dormant,

the weakest pulse,

a signal desire for new life

a second chance to shine

to taste new air

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/26

~

we wake the stolen hour long behind/

to a bright but brittle sun/that oddly hides its polished shine,

seeking the kilter of this amputated day/ we change ancient 

clocks/ the old-fashioned tried and tested way/

as breakfast yawns/ through to early noon/

lunch becomes brunch/ arriving like uninvited guests far too soon/

anon I retreat with book and crossword puzzle/ to a favourite chair,

to see if the lost hour I seek/ is hiding there/

success! I doze around the stroke of three/ and wake at four o’clock/

to fresh baked scones and a piping hot cup of tea.

© Graham R Sherwood 03/26