~

cold weather gathers in the west, 

and will surely catch us out, 

us thinking that warmer days 

had arrived and taken root,

an early Easter will not help, 

at least the chocolate will not 

be prone to run,

gaudy daffodils quietly suffer 

their own calvary and hang 

battered heads in dull remorse, 

for some folk a sombre devout 

weekend of passion looms, 

whilst others in celebration 

baptize their avaricious eyes 

with 25% off any six bottles!

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/26

~

we have harnessed time

and having done so

tethered ourselves to it,

to its limits, its agendas

and its boundaries,

unfettered, time was

a dependable ally, a friend,

alas, measured, it became 

a restless enemy,

days without time 

seemed longer, richer

easier to breathe in,

we must give time a rest

better still set it free and 

make room for life

*

© Graham R Sherwood 3/26

~

I have come to like 

smaller things with

rounded corners,  

that fit the hand

and carry with ease, 

I like smooth surfaces,

not too heavy and

pebble cool, with

curves that please

the thumb and make

me smile,

I like a cello’s hum,

a poem with few words,

the smell and taste

of fruit on my fingers,

I have come to like

the simpler things

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/26

~

an inconsistent wind

wantonly rakes across 

my shivering bedraggled 

garden, brusquely scrubbing

the pathways with its erratic 

billowing gusts, that belch 

wildly as if a corpulent ogre 

has burst into uncontrollable 

raucous booming laughter, 

spitting morsels of his dinner 

across all and sundry as he roars,

this windbag ogre circles

the house like a burglar

looking for the way in, rattling

the letter box as misdirection

whilst rattling the windowpanes,

I feel surrounded and feel

the need to hunker down

as one nervous lull follows

yet another before his next

violent outburst shouts obscene

threats down the chimney

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/26

~

when it happens

it’s not pleasant,

metaphorically a

smack in the face, 

a massive shock 

stopping you in 

your tracks, all

senses numbed and 

you quickly realise 

that nothing will 

ever be the same,

eventually, over time 

new becomes normal

and you begin to see

the reason for change

having sought out 

the pros and dismissed

the cons, however, 

there will be some

quieter times, when 

alone, in the silence

when you just might

grant yourself the

perfidious thought

the the old way just 

may have been better

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/26

no end of lesson bell, 

no warning siren’s wail,

school books still open

on the proper page, lie

on their desks not yet

packed away,

no time to finish this 

weeks spelling test

no secret messages

passed hand to hand,

no plans made for 

weekend fun and games

no mothers gossip

at the gate

no roof, no walls, 

no hope, no reason 

for it all

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/26

for the man, there’s an age

a certain age, closer to his 

ending than his beginning,

when he counts the sum

of the things he’s done and 

those things he didn’t do, 

he comes to conclude his life

didn’t amount to much, 

the things he valued, sought 

after, collected, will become 

the fuel of his funeral pyre,

his poor decisions, choices, 

regrets, have formed a 

cancer within his mind,

things that once mattered, 

lose the will to matter more,

the children he once cared for

now must care for him,

he is forced to consider the 

difference between his home 

and a home, 

his home a safe haven, 

a home his prison,

for the man, there’s an age

a certain age, when he becomes

free to seek solace on the 

pillow of his memories

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/26

~

on what rancid flawed meat

does my anger feed?

my rising tumult of bilious 

stomach-churning outrage,

my futile sense of disbelief 

at what I see, what I hear, 

what I read, my benign disgust 

at heinous world events, tales

of death, of war of poverty 

of hunger of famine, all stoked

by idiotic trumped-up crass 

circus-clown diplomacy, 

sour egotistical, spent old men

gambling with the others’ hand,

this is where my anger feeds

every night, 10pm, BBC

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/26

~

almost March and a

first real foray outside,

there are ironstone rocks

and gravel to shift, new

canes to buy and raised 

beds to dig over,

his old spade leans there 

like a spectator, it’s ancient,

unfit for use, I sometimes 

talk to it, ask it questions

seek its approval, lean

on it for support when taking 

a breather but when I curl 

my soiled fingers around

the old ash handle, its 

smooth patina feels like

his handshake and I’ll

hear him say ‘come on boy

we’re nearly done’.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/26

~

it’s hard to keep my feet, 

on the treacherous 

wet planks, as I peer 

over the rail into the 

turbulent spate, 

it’s coloured a dull green 

like Vaseline and races 

angrily beneath me, 

today, it’s hard to believe 

we sometimes paddle knee

deep under this bridge,

even the beautiful egret 

is out of her depth today,

her yellow boots just visible 

in the lower branches 

of the willow, soon it will be 

the close season again and 

the birds will have the lake 

back for themselves, giving

nature a chance to breathe

and we, an opportunity to 

marvel at its resilience

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/26