~

like water our mood 

reflects the pallor 

of the sky, be it an 

blue optimistic smile 

or a grey cautious 

hooded scowl,

like water time runs

easily through our

desperate grasping 

fingers as we seize

its threadbare coat

and vainly bid it stay, 

like water we give

buoyancy and hope

to each other, a mutual 

life raft to rise above

the waves at times of 

peril and distress,

*

( stay fluid, it makes sense)

© Graham R Sherwood 02/25

~

long-tailed tits are

already investigating the 

battered old birdbox nailed

onto the garage wall, their 

prescient optimism shames

our own reticence to make

an early start in the garden 

save for a half-hearted 

tidying up of slippery leaf fall,

it’s worryingly mild for February

threatening double figures

but could still turn evil yet,

I’m intrigued how capricious 

weather can have such an

effect on peoples’ habits,

behaviour and moods,

one tangible link we still

share with our neighbours 

be they fur or feather,

the willow and cherry both

shiver like bony fingers, 

pointing out a callous warning

should I venture outside

this early in the year,

I easily capitulate and 

settle for rearranging the 

essential detritus in the shed,

*

(weather!!)

© Graham R Sherwood 2/25

~

across the years, 

throughout a lifetime

my poetry has moved from 

giddy teenage love letters, to  

a considered, rear-view mirror, 

septuagenarian candour,

.

somewhere between these two

gateposts, along an unsatisfied path,

I seek the hidden signpost, a way

forward, clarification, reassurance,

a palpable ‘Camino’ for my soul,

and the hope of some redemption 

along the tortuous route,

.

at its threshold in the early years my

poetry could be naïve, fresh, flimsy, 

in the middle years it could be 

destructive, opinionated, reckless,

and during these later years, it

carries a burden, a weight of senile

expectation, a conscience, a duty,

.

across the years, towards the

sunset of a lifetime of verse,

the words may have changed, 

may have grown and taken on a 

persona of their own, 

although worryingly 

it’s an identity that no longer 

recognises its creator

*

(there must be a word for this)

© Graham R Sherwood 2/25

~

setting off we felt fearless,

cow parsley had narrowed the lane

in those heady July days, 

whipping our bare white legs red raw

as we hurtled recklessly downhill 

towards ‘our’ bridge,

trainspotting the only thought,

bike chains churning, clanking

brake blocks smoking and

squealing like banshees,

no-one owned up to being ‘frit’,

that perilous descent

double-daring, egging each 

other on to certain oblivion,

arses up, chins down on handlebars

in breakneck downhill races,

with only one hope, that today 

would be the day to see 45581

Bihar and Orissa, 

the only Jubilee Class missing 

from our dog-eared Ian Allan books,

the bridge crumbled easily

if we jagged the ageing mortar

with our lethal chewed biro daggers,

trainspotting was 95% boredom

and 5% exhilaration, copping

Scots Jubes Brits and Crostis

a young boy’s first orgasm

in those halcyon days,

the russet capstones bore

generations of penknife graffiti

scratched out like family trees,

whilst waiting for trains,

the mesmeric perspective of the rails

disappeared to a point

in both directions, upline and down, 

bookended by distant arches

Finedon Station one way, Nest Lane t’other,

on our bridge, in those long 

sticky sultry summer days

we’d ring our eyes with cupped fingers,

to make pretend binoculars and

stare into the shimmering heat haze, 

like Jack Hawkins, sure as shit 

the Bismarck would break cover 

any minute, as four pennies sizzled

on the nearest rail like chocolate buttons

awaiting their crushing fate,

under the next snorting behemoth

emerging from the distance,

we’d play chicken,

heads dangling over the parapet

all for the chance of a face-full

of steam and grease

making us hungry, with no bottled 

squash and only gnawed crusts left

it being nowhere near dinnertime,

*

( From ‘Knowing my Place’ a collection by Graham Sherwood)

© Graham R Sherwood 2/25

~

you jump up confidently

taking to the makeshift stage

like a salmon leaping for its life,

dog-eared worn paper notes

the bait that trapped you

into bearing your soul are

now held nonchalantly low,

a frown, a tremble, a gag,

as you unveil the inner you

to curious ears, will they get it? 

what if you screw-up?

worse still what if you corpse!

you know the words are good

they pull, they nick, they push, 

they lick, they kiss they slap, as

upturned dimmed faces from below

offer wry smiles, agreeable nods,

a hastily wiped away tear, then

unsure applause begins to pop

like the first splashes of a shower

spreading towards you row by row,

and so back home you go

ego sated, smiling to yourself, 

bus ticket in hand 

*

© Graham R Sherwood 1/25

~

the crocus have fled, daffodils gone,

bereft, only the gold dandelions still linger on,

a tame squirrel tugs at the slim trouser leg

of a beautiful girl strewn like a discarded peg,

across a tattersall rug on damp summer turf

her bleached Sunday newspaper billows like surf

bringing whispered languages so foreign to me

from passionate lovers beneath every tree

this afternoon stroll, a surreal postcard scene

of picnics and lovers and melting ice cream

under clear azure skies this scene is replete

with even the squawk of a lost parakeet,

that strangely, here, in this capital place

brings no hint of surprise on anyone’s face

~

happy music is not for me

I need angst to stir my gut

to feel real pain and tears

from love and loss and lust,

there has to be some damage

a casualty crying out from

the wail of a guitar’s strings,

I need emotion spent

and left lying at my feet

in total submission,

happy music is not for me

I feel nothing

*

© Graham R Sherwood 1/25

~

a poem, born motherless 

at 4.15am,

a disruptive foundling, 

determined to enter this world 

noisily,

a Saturday child that cried

out from within the darkness,

wake up, wake up,

give me life,

a weekend child,

a boy, a working lad, 

a gladiator

* 

© Graham R Sherwood 1/25

~

we sit face to face

across the table

looking for clues, 

like wary gamblers

watching for tells, 

weighing each other up 

through a wine glass

aged bottles of wine we

can no longer afford to buy

their identities concealed

litter the table like aimless

defrocked priests,

thus, we take communion

savouring the rich red blood

with vampiric satisfaction,

these were our children

purchased whilst young, 

raised with love and care 

to this precious moment 

of perfect maturity,

we sit face to face

across the table 

strewn with the corpses 

of loved ones,

it’s over, it’s done

*

© Graham R Sherwood 1/25

~

the heavens are an alphabet

an alien language set within

the dictionary of the cosmos,

as I search for clues, for clearer 

understanding, I am dazzled by 

the unfathomable immensity of 

letters that vie for my undivided

attention, they beseech me to

decipher their distant messages,

but we are merely children in this 

university of space, reaching out

as infants do, arms erect, hopeful

that the teacher will reciprocate,

the heavens are an alphabet from

which we slowly form new words

and tentatively begin to talk

*

© Graham R Sherwood 1/25