we still hold hands 

sitting out in the sun,

a glass of your

favourite Verdicchio 

to hand, under the old 

parasol that, like us,

has seen a few too

many summers,

~

yet again we have

them over, all four,

in our heads as if

reviewing our troops,

to satisfy ourselves 

that we did it right,

~

we talk about how

different they all are

and how similar too,

the spouses they each

ended up with and if

we could have guessed,

~

we muse over how we’d 

like to see them more often

wondering a little sadly 

if our own parents had felt 

just the same when we were

that beautiful age

*

© Graham R Sherwood 07/26

skies like these can be 

anything one wants,

a blank canvas,

~

in the unbroken milk 

blue clear wash of

early morning,

half a pallid moon, 

caught like a flat fish 

in invisible netting 

hangs forlornly as if

embarrassed to remain

on show there,

~

I sit quietly, the city

not yet woken around me,

stare up to the blue, 

the distance touchable

but still wondrous,

~

with skies like these 

I believe I can be

that  boy again 

*

© Graham R Sherwood 7/26

~

decisions can be difficult to make,

stay go, yes no, we weigh them

heavier in our heads than in our hands,

negatives shout louder than good

reasons might do,

planting fear not optimism,

my French friend would bluntly say

concerning decisions,

‘either crap or get off the pot’, however, 

it’s the leaky dam of the inevitable

that presses upon the mind, 

do we smash it, dive in and swim

with the flow or risk drowning

beneath the flood that might

rush towards us

*

© Graham R Sherwood 07/26

~

how different they are 

in many ways the same

two boys, two girls ten

years between now with 

offspring of their own,

some are distant some 

are close, none live

very far away, clever, 

caring, bright and deep

sharing nature’s richly

nuanced helicoidal soup 

 I pray they’ll learn to

love each other, be there

when the family calls

bound together in a clan 

that none had ever

asked to join

*

© Graham R Sherwood 6/26

~

were there a perfect way

where every word might

have its own say,

written sparingly, with

little waste, 

considered, careful, not 

put down in haste,

a message crafted and

clearly writ, that few 

could fail to understand

it’s wit, the words 

like music played to 

gently hold a heart

in joyful celebration of

the poet’s art, anon

when all is said and done,

it must find its place with 

other words finely spun,

*

© Graham R Sherwood 6/26

~

magpies rummage through 

sodden leaf detritus blown 

into the gutters by last night’s 

storm, nudging and squabbling 

like old women at a jumble sale, 

selective, discerning, unhurried, 

some good stuff is still available 

although they angrily chatter 

about the price being asked,

~

it’s been wet again today, the sky

alternating pale blue to dark grey 

with the swirling panache of 

a magician’s cape,

~

I glumly peer through the window

like a beach goer having been

driven off the sands and forced 

back inside an unwelcoming B&B, 

left to wonder how to salvage an 

already impossible day,

~

I decide to go in search of words

half expecting them to play an

irritating hide-and-seek, with me 

being a curt unwilling participant,

~

from my cold desk I feel I need 

music and find Charles Trenet’s 

classic ‘La Mer’ on a favourite 

old holiday playlist,

~

the words can remain hidden

for now, as I sail off Cannes

under a billowing spinnaker 

with my eyes closed, thoughts 

of a washout Wednesday fast

disappearing over the horizon as 

the magpies transform to seagulls

*

© Graham R Sherwood 06/26

(written for a dear cricket-loving friend’s birthday)

III

the umpires pause

to check for bad light

whilst a decent innings 

is still in full flight,

some chances put down 

along the way, which 

might’ve been taken on

any other day,

play on, is the rightful call

eyes now fixed on the ball

there’s still a few more runs 

to find, before you leave this 

worn-out crease behind, 

so, keep your bat straight, 

shoulders square, protect 

your stumps with all due care

as you close in on the ton

remember my friend 

there is no ‘follow-on’

III

© Graham R Sherwood 6/26

~

the compulsion to birth

poetry whilst an insomniac

spawns a mournful child,

doleful, self-harming, a 

paragon of the art of

letting one’s blood, thus

the warm balm of those

words that trickle onto 

the page is then swiftly 

replaced by a shameless 

sated ire of dissatisfaction,

beware the chameleon 

words born from the dark

they are not to be trusted

*

© Graham R Sherwood 06/26

~

the merriment and joyful

banter of a warm afternoon

reluctantly surrenders to a

calmer susurrus before dusk,

it is time for good food, fine wine

and meaningful conversation,

thoughts soon idle towards

hopes wishes and dreams,

and the young who still have

much to discover about

themselves, openly chart

their many aspirations as if

bidding for tricks at cards,

as I listen to this foreplay

I am mindful to revisit those 

keen intentions of my youth

that valiantly tried but failed 

to shape my course,

two generations on I hear

different futures avidly dreamt 

and wonder just how much 

the game has really changed

*

© Graham R Sherwood 06/26

~

this city breathes

differently, a constant

low register pulse

the watchful parental 

growl of an ever-alert

mothership, 

an ethereal force field 

visible only in ultra-violet

shimmers across the city’s 

steely glass skeletal shell,

there were farmsteads here 

once, rooted in this rich 

dark soil, small villages 

heartbeats, identities

with their own songs, true 

strong names chiselled 

into stone from the 

Domesday Book and 

beyond, homesteads 

once to the manor born,

one seismic cosmic event, 

one alien cultural collision, 

supernatural, radical urban decree, 

city status, life would 

never be the same

*

© Graham R Sherwood 05/26