~

there’s a purity in her voice

a smooth musical breathing,

evasive, subtle, constant, it’s

as if a calm ache is seeping

from her pained lips, a whisper

in the chill of a winter morning,

she sings for herself, impassively

disinterested in those who listen

the few years sit lightly on her

sculpting her finely drawn

downcast alabaster beauty

*

© GRS 10/26

~

it’s too late for me

to be heroic, although

some tell me differently,

the good ship rebellion

sailed without me

so instead I become

a free thinker, seemingly

having paid in advance

for that dubious privilege,

life moulded me into a

philosopher, a lonely

candidate at a seminar

for one, handsomely

rewarded with the bigotry

of my self-confession

*

© Graham R Sherwood 10/26

~

I inhabit a peculiar space 

lying somewhere between 

unwilling procrastination 

and latent impetuosity,

once I begin, there must be 

a conclusion, nothing left 

undecided or hanging by  

a thread, abandonment is 

alien to me, I must finish 

what I start, even if I 

become disenchanted 

en-route forfeiting any

satisfaction anticipated, 

often the joy of completion 

is tempered by the stark

foreboding of the next 

emerging project, which

has secretly infiltrated 

the precious sanctity 

of my peculiar space,

and so my wheel turns

*

© Graham R Sherwood 10/26

~

so, is this all there is,

is there really nothing 

more to come, have I 

already had my best 

with ought left for me

to dote upon,

must my thoughts 

dwell in my past, or 

may my eyes search 

sights yet untold,

where lies this magic 

Rubicon, when will I see

its fabled line unfold

*

© Graham R Sherwood 10/26

~

a welcome bench beneath 

a grand horse chestnut tree,

unwanted spent conkers 

in the grass litter my feet 

a distant chalk lion roars

silently across  the downs,

all this in late summer, early

autumn sun, sitting quietly 

on Rothschild’s leafy acres, 

with Sunday nearly done,

*

© GRS 10/26

~

remember when you asked

for some of my poems that 

you might make into a book

one day to remember me by, 

I replied that one day you 

would have them all and you 

cried at that very thought, 

then you held onto my hand

until we arrived home

~

I go back there

as often as I can

to walk the lanes,

rub my palms on

the smooth stone

walls in the hope

of waking up

another memory,

if my luck holds up

I just might catch

a fleeting glimpse

of the boy I was,

haring by on a bike,

I may shed a tear

and let it fall amongst 

those special places, 

as if to leave

my own trace there

~

light and dark

held in balance

momentarily 

I hold my breath,

an expectant pause

an indecipherable 

whisper through the

trees and buildings,

an autumnal refrain 

heralds a passing

warm becomes cool

colours change 

© G R Sherwood 09/26

~

a single image of a lone pint on the bar, 

a stark message, ‘RIP this one’s for you’,

thus, another name often heard spoken  

disappears,

‘he hadn’t been good  for some time

but all the  same it was quite sudden’

spill out the tributes on the social pages, 

this is how I hear another acquaintance 

is rubbed out, with just twenty-six likes

and ten broken hearts to show

for a life well lived

*

© Graham R Sherwood 09/26

~

when the sun shone a hasty game of cricket 

would usually break out, especially if Derek was 

playing, as he had a proper bat and ball,

otherwise, it was a vicious kick-about with an old 

punctured plastic ball that we kept in the bushes, 

and no-one ever bothered stealing,

if it rained, we sat high up in the canopy of the big 

elm tree to keep dry, like a family of gibbons,

if Kevin’s mum took pity on us we sat cross-legged

in her shed with a mug of squash and a custard cream,

if it wasn’t sunny or raining we were usually asleep,

dreaming that we were Flash Gordon, Roy Rogers 

or Bobby Charlton,

I often wonder if that old ball is still in the bushes

*

© Graham R Sherwood 09/26