~

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

~

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