February, the longest month

lets slip our coattails

from its chilling breath,

pulls back the darkest shadows

and drags its sodden cloak away,

we cheer the peal of snowdrops

applaud the daffodils’ fanfare 

blow kisses to the primrose

the crocus and the violet,

for there is a frisson in the air

warm music on the ear

and a spring in our step

*

© Graham Sherwood 03/2021

there’s to be vigil

tonight

refuse sleep, stay awake

for a good reason

a death

we’ll keep watch, wait there

pray if you wish

bring a candle, a long one

warm clothing

we must be quiet, respectful

stay until the sun rises

then go your way

back to your lives

*

© Graham Sherwood 03/2021

no better word exists

to describe a sensual shape

than curve,

the beauty and simplicity

of a curve, the fluidity

of myriad moving lines

uninhibited by any pre-design,

in the exquisite female form

curvaceous lips breasts hips calves

outshine the curvature

of any earthly horizon,

a curve will lead you where it will

the eye following its course

to the eventual vanishing point,

celebrate the softness of curves, 

celebrate the mystery.

*

© Graham Sherwood 03/2021

when I read, I hear the voices,

I conjure up the characters that 

live amongst the lines of black words,

black print forged onto

white paper, etched, inked-in,

no matter what the words speak

of love, of hate, friendship, enmity,

they cannot be separated

and must co-exist,

I read the black words

of men, women and children,

I do not see their colour

but I hear their voices

*

© Graham Sherwood 03/2021

we are all fashioned the same 

root and a crown, one feeds the other,

crown is nourished by root

root grows strength from the essence of crown,

root remains unseen, cherished,

crown is a warrior, traveller, scholar, 

root and crown are inseparable

apart they cannot survive

*

© Graham Sherwood 03/2021

my world still turns,  

seasons bargain to exchange their tenure,

an unfulfilled, lacklustre winter

packs up its chilling spells, as

exuberant spring knocks my door,

I feel I must be busy

I prepare, I tidy, I prune, I dream

four weeks, perhaps a little longer

to fulfil my plan,

before a helpless torpor

will cut my core,

forcing me to idly spectate,

I’ll watch the heavy blossom bounce

wake early with the blackbird

crave the smell of freshly turned soil 

between my fingers

as spring begins to waltz with summer,

forced to sit out the dance

I’ll watch the carnival pass

a convalescing voyeur.

*

© Graham Sherwood 02/2021

our optimism is ripening, and

we make careful plans to inter 

this soulless incarceration,

we were taught not to fear

that which cannot be seen,

to cherish our ghosts

tread bravely in the darkness,

to protect our kin, but

the world having sewn its bad seed

planted a cancer in our confidence

which, like an insidious wraith

embalmed ours hopes,

eventually we’ll cautiously tiptoe 

from this vacuum, and

having shed our threadbare skins

for a wary carapace

will welcome this emotional metamorphosis

that will better shield us.

*

© Graham Sherwood 02/2021

we do not pretend to be in love

that would be false,

our love shadows merged 

more than fifty years ago,

true love mustn’t be a tattoo, 

nor a vulgar declaration

of overt undying affection, 

real love is a watermark

a deeply set indelible image

never brighter, never fading

ever present, unwavering

impossible to erase.

*

© Graham Sherwood 02/2021

I should have rushed outside

in that bullying storm

with the ludicrous name,

to embrace your ravaged girth,

it wasn’t a fair fight

and I worried for you,

later we spoke, quietly,

I would turn out to be

your assassin,

full thirty years and more

in splendid summers

bleak winters,

boughs bearing grandchildren

perched like chattering gibbons

hidden in your foliage,

you breathed on me, shaded me, cleaned me

shared my space, hid my tears

rugged sanctuary, beacon,

it is time

I become frail, as do you

both know our destiny

*

© Graham Sherwood 02/2021

I admire authors

they cradle their creations

like newly-born babies,

proud parents swaddling offspring.

I am consigned to be childless

lacking both the discipline

to birth a book, or

the ability to devise

one compelling storyline.

I am Tantalus, thwarted

forever dissatisfied,

my heart’s desire

perpetually out of reach

starved of literary sustenance.

So I make do

with these crumbs of verse

sprinkled before me,

such minute tasty morsels

that when laboriously gathered up

do not make a hearty meal,

so I sit and I starve.

*

© Graham Sherwood 02/2021