Ten feet up in the wings

perched on a scaffold tower

best seat in the house.

Hoisted clumsily to a three-plank seat 

with only a right-hand glove 

as the lamp gets very hot.

Twelve years old it’s 

a big responsibility, 

a lot to remember 

working the stage right spotlight.

Always yellow for chorus, blue for night

pink for fairy, green for the baddie.

I was never afraid of the demon

played by my friend’s dad Eric

By the end of the week

I was word perfect with the show tunes 

from Carousel, South Pacific, Oklahoma 

and West Side Story.

I got all the jokes, even the grown-up ones,

unscripted mustard sandwich pranks

the prompts, the local hecklers too.

Every evening for one whole week

bookended by two shows each Saturday

I shone my purest pink beam

and sent my undying schoolboy love 

to the good fairy, a teenage goddess

a beauty five years my senior

with never any chance of a smile.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 05/22

 my life has spanned seven decades, 

there is little that I need,

simple mantras now signpost my days

my worldly irrelevance lies lightly

on my contentment

I have become sanguine and wise

*

© Graham R Sherwood 05/22

the girl in the playground

who first held my heart

ran like an antelope

sang chords like a harp,

the smell of burnt toast

clung deep on her clothes

and Quink ink tattoo stains 

blotted her nose,

it’s her green flashing eyes

I can never forget

when, too young for such feelings

we finally met

I had to run hard to catch

this most beautiful fawn

leaving her suitors

bereft and forlorn

but my whole world crumbled

I half-expected it would

as no boy could move her

like singing songs could

and a lifetime later

I can still hear her voice

now the playground stands empty

I wasn’t her choice.

*

Graham R Sherwood 04/22

not buried in these rusted stones

or the muffled clang

of the bottom school bell

not amongst the conker trees

the mist in the grove, 

or the burning stubble on Thrapston Rd

not the sights and sounds of carnival

nor the vinegar on fish and chips

new shoe leather or paraffin 

not written in the names of pets long-gone

or familiar names, 

on High St shops

my lost Camino lies right here

hidden in plain sight beneath my feet

camouflaged in the faces

of weathered friends

local words and memories

in humour, ribbing

and remember whens

this way I’ve sought

has been waiting here

has never wavered, is loyal, proud

and so, we walk and talk

and walk some more

spending whatever time remains

just glad that in life’s labyrinth

we all of us

found ‘our way’ back here

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/2022

when I consider this place

a telling realization dawns,

perhaps what I’m really looking for 

isn’t set deep in the buildings here after all,

of course, the old ones, the really

old ironstone local landmarks

church, obelisk, hall, school, the inn, 

do breathe their own imposing presence,

sharing an under-sung self-satisfied smirk

like knowing pensioners, who no longer 

need to earn their living,

having done their time, clocked-off

still standing, confidently resolute,

still a living part of this place,

as I walk, I pat their warm worn stones in the

way I stroked the back of my grandfather’s hand

with a love, a respect, a given loyalty

each tap gently counting-out my blessings 

with no need for extravagant embraces,

no, it’s not the buildings but the faces,

the voices, the particular dialect that 

once defined one village from another

none more than two miles apart,

I see old eyes briefly brighten sharply

like blown embers, rekindling a hearth

memories flicker, chuckles become flames

and for that one hour we are young again.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/22

a beautiful girl, 

long slim fingers, 

strokes a precious Stradivari,

patina polished maple

a touch like mist on water,

exquisite lilting notes

sublimely float, take flight

then slowly fade

as they surely must

she is compelled to sway,

as a reed in a stream

sensuous, erotic, beguiled

by the purity of sound

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/22

it’s more of a tap 

than a tick,

somewhere, in the back of my throat,

no

it’s more in my neck

a constant reminder,

both good and bad,

good 

because it’s a regular rhythm

bad, because it signifies

patched up damaged goods,

I know it sounds ungrateful

hell no!

I know I’m very lucky,

but it’s always there

it always will be

like Captain Hook’s crocodile

but it’s more of a tap

than a tick

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/22

for a path to exist, first 

there must be a footprint

to create the way

or there is no path, 

the birth of a path

is a gift to others,

those with curious feet

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/22

the acrid stench of this war

invades my nostrils,

devastating pictures

painted by the news

overwhelm my senses,

my face, impregnated by disbelief

aches with futile empathy,

my handwringing angst and

bold words of allegiance

would not clothe a skeleton

this war is the devil’s work

and finds my faith wanting 

I am ashamed

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/22

warm March sunshine 

is a welcome stranger

and deftly strokes our faces, 

as we idle down the lanes,

~

your light touch on my sleeve 

alerts me to stand still

a young sparrow hawk is

perched sentry-style on the 

church wall, wary, cautious,

talons buried deep in the lichen

~

we freeze like cold statuary 

of the nearby graveyard 

in the hope this unexpected

audience will perhaps endure,

~

but all spells eventually break

and our hypnosis is shattered

by the raucous clang

announcing the Eucharist

~

instinctively wings flex 

revealing his hidden prize

a tiny breakfast shrew

hauled easily skyward

~

as parishoners arrive piecemeal

we follow his flight disappearing

behind the sombre yews

silhouetted against the blue

still gaping our appreciation

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/22