~

a lone pigeon on 

a neighbours roof

points to all four 

directions in turn 

like a clockwork

weathervane,

day in day out its

pallid eyes search

the near horizon,

I follow its gaze

absent-mindedly,

wondering.

~

day in, day out I am confronted,

I stare into the bathroom mirror and

try to recognize the person staring back,

the mirror looks perplexed, perturbed 

at my lack of recognition, disappointed,

I see the face, grimace, contorting to

make a faux maniacal smile,

I lean closer to inspect it and

get a clearer picture

the mirror agape, seems to say

‘whoa, back off, what is your problem’,

duly chastised I recoil, whilst trying to

decide whether I like what I see,

the mirror smirks at my concern

‘same time tomorrow‘?

*

© Graham R Sherwood 08/25

~

thinking the battle over soon

they circle greedily overhead 

a select bunch of ravenous

pinstriped vultures

one thing only in mind 

to carve themselves a slice 

of cake already half-eaten,

to some they are leaders 

to others dealers, to all

the letters are the same,

each blow on clenched 

fists and hope to roll a six, 

the prize a slice of Ukraine 

two men have eyes on a

different prize, that one fool

thinks he’s already won 

*

© Graham R Sherwood 08/25

1.

cloudless blue, warm, still,

the field left to grass, the

house cat hides behind

thistles to stalk mice,

as the morning waxes 

hay rolls seem to glisten

and in the field cow parsley

heads all face the same 

way as if at a religious 

gathering, it is Sunday 

after all, 

the tranquil hiss and hum 

of the countryside the only 

hymn being played,

for some this is a holy day

so, quietly I say my prayer,

blessing my loved ones and

secretly allow myself 

redemption

2.

we found her mouse

floating backstroke 

in the pool skimmer,

carrion for the buzzard

that rigorously patrols 

our sky like a drone,

the strangled repartee 

of a baby cockerel from

the farm makes us smile

juvenile owls in the copse

seemingly answering its call,

down the lane the vines

look in fine shape in

spite of the heat,

perfect corduroy files

above a velvet undergrowth

a nod to lovers of the soil,

we drink the red wine

from this land, decent,

honest, respectable

shown in the rugged

face of the vigneron,

3.

a well advertised

temperature spike

surges above forty,

like most animals we

lie low and stay close

to home, using the pool

to keep cool, 

our vacation torpor

contrasts to that of the 

village which bristles 

with movement, ancient 

agricultural machinery 

clatters past the door

behind tractors of a 

similar vintage,

the baker was up at dawn

creating mouthwatering 

aromas by breakfast time,

people stand, greet and

chatter as if the weekend

had been enforced hibernation, 

we are content croissants 

in hand croque-monsieurs 

for lunch

4.

as the days’ heat gives way 

crickets bristle and zing in a 

chorale of botanical tinnitus,

there’s cloud tonight for the

first time this week to wrap 

the unspent tag end of our day,

we drink a bottle of Molhiere 

a Chateau La Rode too, both

born and raised here as 

carefully as are the local 

school children,

5.

the local people, 

the older folk 

might think it strange,

that foreigners, holiday

in a former landmark of their 

quiet unassuming village,

ancient, once ruinous 

now restored with Miro 

themed stained glass 

the chapel brought 

back to life, still hides 

meekly in plain site

6.

uncomfortably warm 

brushing forty

a merciless sun 

taunts us to bare flesh

even gaudy sunflowers

cringe and bow heavily 

blackened faces,

a white dog frolics in 

the ancient lavoir, 

barking its joy in

unbridled appreciation,

makeshift sunscreens 

strung here and there

for feeble shade give

the village a Bedouin feel,

as three nuns tumble from

the bakery ecstatically 

cradling croissants as if 

having won prizes

their habits must feel

like saunas

7.

why this village,

this area, when it could 

easily have been any 

of ten thousand,

one classified ad

amongst many others

a boozy Sunday lunch

the idea of holidaying

in a French farmhouse

and forty years fly by,

and here we are,

almost locals, returning

like swifts and swallows

to the place we love,

there’s a serenity about

this place, no airs nor

graces, just peace,

the natives must think 

us strange, but have

now welcomed three 

generations of my family 

here as fondly as their own,

until we fly away again

8.

from an busy autoroute

in the middle of nowhere

sweetcorn tall on one side

ripe black face sunflowers 

bowing low on the other

from along a beaten track

by the roadside 

a beautiful horsewoman 

cantering on a grey, 

skirting the corn, glimpsed 

for only a second

here deep in France 

‘profonde’, 

where else?

© Graham R Sherwood 08/25

~

at the school gate

children mill around

each other excitedly,

a high-pitched timbre

like anxious birdsong

hovers just above them

like a joyful cloud,

it’s the last day of term

for some, the last day

at this school for others,

a guarantee that there

will be many tears later,

nearby oblivious

to this cacophony

young mothers talk

to their phones making

Ikea brunch rendezvous for

meatballs, never-ending

coffee and pipe-dream

home furnishing projects,

young and old it seems

all changing rooms.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 08/25

~

the people launched

their ship of fools with 

no master at the wheel

and ballast blown,

the asylums fall into 

the hands of lunatics

as businessmen become 

politicians, bartering for

their piece of the world,

social media graffiti, the 

new bible of lies, spews 

its endless bait, false vomit 

confetti that spatters our 

consciousness and twists 

truth into sweet mouthfuls,

the youth are diseased  

and weak from being

hooked as easy fish, gaping 

helplessly as their 

intelligence is traded for 

worthless counterfeit 

currency,

and old poets write 

farewell odes in dust

and tears wondering 

how it came to this.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 08/25

~

we take rest on the hill

to give our memories 

a chance to catch us up,

opposite the old school 

we lean on the cemetery 

wall where the obvious 

jokes are cracked, each 

tinged with a knowing 

ironic speck of truth, our

recollections are strewn

around out feet like spilt 

ha’pennies and coppers

from our pocket money,

for those few seconds 

we are village boys again

bound by the primal 

elasticity of our past

young players tumbling 

around our very own 

field of dreams,

on each visit this place 

gladly takes us back,

combs our hair and gives

us a motherly spit wash,

lost boys who somehow

found our way back home

*

© Graham R Sherwood 07/25

~

over the years possessions 

may become heirlooms, 

and might be eagerly 

coveted as one generation 

hands its flame onto the next,

the sense of family can often

be undervalued until there 

is a real danger of loss,

unlike certain tangible 

chattels or assets

mortality has no value

we are destined to grow, 

wither and die, leaving only

memories, destined also

to eventually do the same,

cherish your family dearly

however short the time

make every meeting

meaningful, enjoy 

them while you can

time is fleeting,

be present

*

© Graham R Sherwood 07/25

~

I wake abruptly 

into darkness,

the word inkling

rings in my ear

like an alarm

clock dancing 

across my bedside 

cabinet,

–

I have a vague suspicion 

where this rude awakening 

will lead as I attempt to

reference the word,

–

disturbed by the 

glow of my light

she mutters 

‘I thought so’ grumpily 

under her breath 

and turns her back

to resume a snore,

–

I have half an idea 

that sleep may well be

done with for tonight 

*

© Graham R Sherwood 07/25

~

a marmalade sun briefly sets

the horizon aflame before

quenching itself as it climbs

behind the city’s silhouette,

it will be cooler today they say

on the early news and we might

already have had our summer,

I feel deluded and disquieted

by the phoney heat as if being

mislead by some greater force

that I do not fully understand

but am willing to be coerced by,

so with this self-satisfied 

scepticism and knowing that

good things do not last forever

I launch myself like a newly

christened boat into Tuesday,

it’s 5am and the city beast is yet 

to rouse its cantankerous head

itself still basking in this faux

continental sleight of hand

as I sit to consider my options.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 07/25