~

before the birdsong at

3am the night air is cool

and hangs as if suspended, 

waiting patiently, stored

in a frigid vacuum

prescient, expectant, 

then my ear catches the 

rhythmic melody of your 

timid dream breathing, 

half waves lapping a shore 

half a distant breeze that

mesmerizes palm trees

and I imagine warmth,

the darkness is hostile

an erstwhile witness to

beings that wake before 

the overture of dawn, 

fair prey to the daemons

that lurk in the shadows

so I feign sleep to trick the

solemnity of the departing

night, content in the

subterfuge of my wilful deceit

listening to the ‘chisk’ of

breaking waves and the

balmy shiver of palm trees

*

© GRS 6/24

~

the very young and 

the very old, poles apart 

in the spectrum of life

both regard time through 

the same lens, with little 

need if any to pander

to society’s traditional 

customs and limitations,

a child’s time effortlessly

spans borders and boundaries,

visits countries and continents

leaving ample time to be

home for bath time and bed,

time for the ‘olderly’

often appears to stand still 

allowing for long reflection 

and remembrance, for

memories and musings

all from the comfort of home

hand in hand they may both

travel together unhindered

through a shared time and space

one looking forward, the other back

each never once meeting 

or greeting the other

*

© GRS 6/24

~

1965 not

fourteen years old 

virgin hormones 

freshly pressed 

music madness 

O level French  

and there you were,

smooth chocolate 

melted butter voice,

an ache somewhere

I’d never felt before

could it be love

this hurt, this pain

fourteen years old

a poster on the wall

and that dress!

my first wet dream

and so it began

a leap, a fall

yeah! yeah!

1965

*

© GRS 6/24

~

I stare out vacantly 

absentmindedly 

vacantly looking

but seeing nothing

there are no 

South Sea islands

phantasmic mountains 

mystical beasts

hidden ciphers

foreboding signals 

the sky is blank

unresponsive, hollowed 

a milk blue wasteland

I expected more

I feel betrayed,

jilted at the indigo 

altar of sunset

a promising dusk 

turned tail and tripped 

upon the threshold 

of early evening 

and hastened away

hiding its multi-hued 

gallery of skirts, 

from my sight,

wilful, contemptuous

denying my farewell

the sky’s cloth hangs

vague and empty

unpainted

*

GRS 6/24

~

be it blind faith, 

perchance 

threadbare arrogance 

or a mere 

paper-thin bravado

whichever way, 

we are assured a new day 

will follow this night,

dawn might break with aplomb

a red gash scar bleeding 

across the battle-bruised horizon, 

thus, in awe we tamely 

heed its caution

cowering sheepishly 

spellbound,

or she may breezily appear, 

sleep-walking, clothed 

scantily in a diaphany 

of pale blue chiffon, 

her pale pink flesh 

coyly hidden, for which 

we become avid 

if somewhat reticent 

voyeurs

*

© Graham R sherwood 06/24

~

on the first Thursday of each month

it’s like playtime used to be as

we gather for coffee and old banter,

all those that can make it that is

except those with a letter from 

their mothers’ if any are still alive,

~

we’re all into our seventh decade 

memories like elephants and sundry

medications rattling in our pockets,

we have all known each other since 

those innocent distant years 

at infants’ school aged four or five,

~

‘remember whens’ are passed around

with the biscuits and frowning brows

turn into creased smiles as the mists

shrouding memories begin to clear,

~

we have become a round table of 

experts on the dark arts of diabetes

pacemakers heart valves Parkinson’s

disease and delicate matters of

mens’ nether regions,

~

old girlfriends and first crushes 

as usual gather opposite, girlish pigtails

now trimmed to multicoloured perms

a walking stick or two, to poke us

cheeky blokes into line,

~

even on the coldest of days

there is a warmth rising from this 

class of young ‘uns, who have somehow, 

imperceptibly faded to grey 

*

© Graham R Sherwood 06/24

~

she arrives after school

weaving silently through the 

half-open gate like a zephyr, 

after tentatively surveying 

the lie of the land she ambles 

over and nonchalantly leans 

her body against mine as I relax 

outside with a glass of wine,

with this simple unspoken gesture

I know the worst is over and 

diplomatic relations have been 

re-established following yesterday’s 

fractious spat in the kitchen,

it’s called unconditional love, 

neither of us can break this bond

even if we tried to, 

so she lolls 

comfortably against me and 

lets my arm encircle her waist,

I whisper ‘love you’, 

‘love you too’ she says

and we’re good again, 

for now, at least

until the next time

*

© Graham R Sherwood 06/24

~

should I ever need to make sense of all this

I’ll go and talk to him

travelling light with only rod reel and net,

I’ll ask his advice

between each cast mending the line with

a deft flick of the wrist as the fly begins to skate,

I’ll listen studiously to his opinion as I choose 

between a hare’s ear, a tupps or a grey duster,

I’ll sense his approval as the rod tip nods

with the first knock of the morning rise,

but more importantly

for those dark, blank days when I perhaps 

feel that I should have stayed at home in bed

he’ll lift my chin up with that calloused 

hand of his and bid me to be calm and

notice the beauty set around me

*

© Graham Richard Sherwood 06/24

~

as the sky glooms to dark and

the city’s lights somewhat reluctantly

chance to flicker on one by one,

the west face of buildings glow and

bathe in a marmalade wash from 

the wet burnt orange death of sunset,

~

on cue, we begin to fear the 

opaque intransigence of the dark, 

feeling timid under its debilitating mantle 

where distances shorten, noises acutely keen 

and our confused eyes flit mesmerized, 

~

the dark is blatant, sanctimonious, letting 

us stare at the arrogant dance of its shadows, 

that ridicule and scold our trepidations, 

turning the creatures of the night into 

frightful ogres that mean to do us harm

~

we know bad things abide within the dark,

nightmares foment and stray unleashed

time slows, long-forgotten memories 

swirl on unsure tides, courage fractures

and heroes look the other way

*

© Graham R Sherwood 06/24

~

I’d left the bedroom curtains

purposely undrawn so as to frame 

the majestic Ragleth come the dawn,

waking I saw a line of sheep

ambling curiously across its pathways

like a broken string of woollen beads,

the valley muffling their sporadic 

grumbling complaints, that were  

far too distant for me to decipher,

later I would exchange places

with them and extol the virtues of 

the undulating panorama from atop 

this beauteous Shropshire hill,

with their most recently returned 

son and his wife, who proudly pointed 

out, their new home from that 

brilliant vantage point,

the forecast threat of storms, 

circling patiently in the distance

like hungry wolves came to nought, 

until we were safely ensconced 

in the village pub with beer,

the cloudburst’s swift deluge 

scattering those in the beer garden 

like frit skittles,

that evening I gave my

house-warming gift, a slim 

volume of A. E. Houseman’s

‘A Shropshire Lad’ that we browsed 

through over claret cheese and

conversation

*

© GRS 05/24