~

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

~

although they are almost over

the Riesling tomatoes hang like

bright red Christmas baubles

strung through a tree, early 

festivities that make us smile,

ketchup is already bottled with

no need of green fruit and litres 

of sloe gin require a daily shake 

before being put down to bed,

a neighbour has bartered

marmalade for our damsons

so we jest about The Good Life

from TV, everything is early

this year, leaf fall has begun

autumn will be short

*

© Graham R Sherwood 09/26

~

what of a man who 

thinks too much, 

what woes are salved

by his thoughts alone,

how can the fellow

untangle issues such, 

with many of his old 

trusted mentors gone,

but which way to turn, 

to find a precious spark

no answers whisper

through the quiet,

just the tinnitus of

the cold callous dark

scattered pell-mell 

and running riot,

so, what of this man

who thinks too much,

he juggles words

spun into verse,

which then become 

his steadfast crutch

to stand afflicted

with the poets’ curse

*

© Graham R Sherwood 09/26

~

they never made us feel special

or told us that we were loved, 

we, the progeny of those frantic 

post-war years,

work hard, respect your elders 

and betters, keep your nose clean, 

values I’ve kept throughout life,

looking back seventy-five years, 

I’m not surprised at just how 

unremarkable it’s all been and 

whether I should have wanted more,

I could have written most of it down 

way back then, an ordinary life planned 

out with few steps veering off 

the path, no bucket list, no flash car, 

just a steady job, house, wife, kids, 

thus, settled in my twilight years

I look into their urgent eyes and 

say to the children of my children, 

go out and find the world,

the one I missed,

bring me back a piece to hold

*

© Graham R Sherwood 09/26

~

I wouldn’t exactly call him a chum but

we often talk whilst sharing the dark,

we both have same affliction, or is it a

syndrome, a condition, I’m never really

sure what to call it,

it’s like running into someone you know

down the pub, there’s always something to

go on about, put right,

we do have the odd argument, he can be

a cantankerous sod at times but I never

go to sleep without getting stuff sorted

out in my head,

it’s not something I would want to deal

with on my own,

I often curse him, to be honest my wife’s 

not a fan of his either 

but I know if I need him, he’ll always be there 

waiting to listen

© Graham R Sherwood 08/26

~

I listen to them and my  

anxiety multiplies into 

shapeless terrors,

our young have become 

expert without the need

to be learned, worse

having no desire to be,

blithely they hold a top 

drawer view of life’s many

complexities without 

having experienced them,

artificial intelligence is

their new deity and has 

replaced their ability to

think and reason well,

when challenged they cite 

my concern as jealous 

indignation overlooking my 

abject fear for their survival, 

the machine will never stop

*

© Graham R Sherwood 08/26

~

the poetry waits patiently 

comfortable, dormant, 

living rent-free lying low, 

happy inert, biding its time,

just waiting for me,

once I light the fuse

the words act like captives

burning to be set free, 

writhing violently against me

release is their one desire,

angered if I were to hold on 

to them too long,

so, I grant them freedom 

to shout out loud, to explain 

themselves, fulfil their true

meaning, to fly, bask in good air, 

but alas, they fall limply at

my feet exhausted by the

fatigue of their own creation

*

© Graham R Sherwood 08/26

~

you could call it an 

accidental rendezvous,

me visiting old haunts, him 

on his daily dog walk, it

could almost have been fixed 

but after sixty years or so, 

there we both were, cautiously

offering curious feint smiles, 

we stood there, face to face

looking, studying each other’s 

wrinkles, creases, lines, as if

searching for clues, wondering

when, why, where were these 

ghostly features etched and all

our youthful colours stolen, 

leaving only tarnished silver 

and age-worthy grey, eventually 

I managed to utter his name,

‘well bugger me’, his only reply

*

© Graham R Sherwood 07/26