~

I’ve never been good at

waiting, much preferring 

to make things happen

instead of waiting for

them to happen to me 

unbidden,

as I have grown older, 

perhaps becoming a 

little more philosophical, 

I have begun to readily 

allow myself the sweet

charm of anticipation,

to witness the pure joy on

the faces of my grandchildren 

and the desire to share its 

radiant glow overwhelms my

stubborn adult stoicism,

for twenty-four days I am

that little boy again, juvenile, 

full of malleable excitement,

counting off the days until…

*

© Graham R Sherwood 12/24

~

in that picturesque graveyard

I watched as you moved amongst 

the funereal sculptures, your 

long slim fingers sensuously 

stroking those perfect curves, 

your palm lightly brushing

the shroud of velvet lichen,

in this sombre wintry garden

I imagined you naked too, perched 

upon their chiselled flanks,

a young lithe goddess,

beautiful

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/24

~

faded are the once vivid limes and 

apple green silks of Summer, left 

only to the warmth of our memory,

as are the bottled sages of Autumn 

that lie prone underfoot no longer

crackling with laughter beneath 

our heavy boots, in camouflage the

famished squirrels rummage in the 

soddened maroon leaf fall, shunning

the mocking chatter of magpies,

above them a shrill portent hisses 

and whistles from the bitter north, 

tuned keenly by the nimble fingers

of stripped bare trees,

how patiently the mistletoe pearls 

quietly await their hour, yet to glisten

above the yule log’s flame

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/24

~

badgered by our granddaughter

age ten, almost eleven, going on thirty

to put up the Christmas decorations 

earlier this year, you agree, 

careful to hide your resignation,

our artificial tree, that’s older than she is

sleeps in the garage in a plastic sarcophagus 

bought last year when the original 

cardboard box finally disintegrated,

once again, we open the Pandora’s box 

of memories, recalling perfectly where each 

and every precious item was purchased, 

the four tiny, glass angel carol-singers 

from Australia of all places; 

the clear glass melting icicles from Riquewihr, 

easily your favourites:

a little painted drum from a curio shop in 

Nantes and of course the old papier-mache

Victorian baubles,

thus, the tree is beautifully lit and 

fully-dressed with reminiscences swirling

from those eclectic places and times, 

each bauble passed carefully lovingly from 

hand-to-hand between us, 

I wait,

I know she will be left until the very end,

the tissue-paper angel that Laura made at 

playschool fifty years ago, just for you

fragile as a butterfly and priceless,

she always makes us cry

~

I came upon Arcadia,

set in burnished mellow

honeyed Cotswold stones,

along the Fosse meridian

where sleepy chippings rest and 

woollen churches offer shade,

to nibble scones,

drink China tea in china cups

and marvel at the charming wolds,

where now the residential fleeces 

wear pink rinses and bleat

in other raucous foreign drones,

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/24

~

a stinging wind prowls 

pell-mell through the garden,

bare trees shiver above their 

erstwhile burnished striptease, 

their matted leaves lie dull

and fractured like golden stars,

decaying galaxies daubed upon

paths and grass,

what little sun there is hides

behind a battered fence, itself

a casualty of the ceaseless blow,

old slats askew throw pallid light

spears through this sullen scene,

stars and stripes to end this

disappointing day

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/24

~

this peculiar light

early evening paling 

thinly clothed,

a charlatan stolen from

this morning’s pocket,

I scowl with disbelief at

the cracked willow

bark framed in blue

juxting with each blink

copper grey, grey copper

back and forth,

I stare intently 

to stop blinking,

there it goes again

switch, swap, change

copper grey, grey copper

like someone indecisively

choosing paint 

from a chart,

finally, the choice made

it rests to grey, lead

amongst the dark,

the sky framed taupe

the pattern set

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/24

~

on the bus I watch their faces

and wait for them to read line five

it’s the one that’s guaranteed to

draw a reaction of some sort,

a furrowed brow, a double squint

puffed cheeks, a silent expletive

or a look of surprise, then

surreptitiously they might look 

around to see if anyone else

is also reading it, it’s the last line 

that is the real killer, it leaves 

them hanging like washing,

did she or didn’t she? and what

became of the letter?

I only wish I knew!

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/24

~

we meet to walk

young old boys from junior school

back together for our final term,

we laugh until it hurts

and sometimes if dust gets in our eyes

make nought of it,

we used to roam these pits all day,

now they’re called country parks with

safe gravel paths and picture signs

although the newts and butterflies

have gone for a burton,

we talk of heart valves, pacemakers

hips and knees, girlfriends

villains fought and

boy scout pranks,

our winsome wrinkled

vacant smiles clear

the distant mists as in Brigadoon, 

when it’s time, the adieu 

handshakes and embraces

grip a little tighter, for longer

each of us hoping we’ll 

still be around to hear

the next school bell,

old young boys back

again for one last jape

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/24

~

the memories I buried 

do not age 

although their ghosts 

who visit me, often, do,

in dreams they stare 

back coldly, almost 

nose to nose, intently, 

always unseen by others,

they study me carefully

 calibrate my ageing traits

as my skin begins to pale

wrinkle, taut and crack,

I feel no fear 

nor intimidation, for these 

wise old grey pallid faces

tell me truths, question me

stop time, formulate plans

to help steer my course,

age as they might, both

memories and ghosts

somehow live on forever

in discordant symbiosis

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/24