~

to turn on a tap

for one drop of water,

so much will be lost

the waste is shameless,

a flagrant inundation

of the original thirst,

and so with words, when

 unfettered feverish

tongues spill forth

across a page, all

meaning is lost,

the vital message

undelivered

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/24

~

the good days, 

the very best, were

when we snatched 

an hour before breakfast,

we’d left the rods tackled up 

hidden near the water,

tiny grey duster flies 

tied long, ready for 

the first rise of the day,

early mist wraiths

would slowly draw up

like a theatre curtain, still

cloaking a pale wet sun,

in that magical hour, 

the trilling birdsong

waterfowl preening 

amongst the reeds

kelly kettle on the go,

it might have been Eden

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/24

~

one by one, 

we shake our heads

and let smiles break out 

like measles caught freely 

from each other at school,

we’re all old boys

old school friends

together again, it feels like 

Sunday School but it’s Thursday

back in that same room,

we each cradle a mug of tea

and fiddle fold origami-style

our tickets for the raffle

none of us wants to win,

between us half a millennium 

worth of memories swirl 

around, brewing like teabags 

colouring-in our pasts,

old smiles are fractured by 

wrinkles and dentures

eyes a shade dimmer,

if an old photograph is

unveiled like an imposter 

it’s admiringly passed around

hand-to-hand, considered 

studiously, proudly as if 

we’ve been granted the chance 

to hold a champion conker

to enviously marvel at,

we all hurt somewhere and

play medication snap but

rely on this monthly salve

being the best medicine after all

for the price of a cup

of tea and a raffle ticket

*

© Graham R Sherwood  03/24

~

your words spill too freely,

such carelessly dropped curses

fragile as faith and blind as rage

are couriers of crude stark opinion

falling easily from your tongue

to cut like razor blades,

your necrotic venom swills

wantonly around our ears

a putrid seething mind medicine

intent on bending hearts to

mindless acquiescence, 

a simple form of succour for 

your paper-thin faux intellect,

you have no right to daub us

with such opaque distemper

or pin foul excrement to our cloth,

we have no need of your

bilious megaphone mantras 

our freedom though bruised

has far stronger flesh

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/24

~

we each have a god that exists within us, 

self-crafted, a deity whose mantra enriches 

our capricious psyche,

a personal theologian, a conscience masseur 

to stimulate our deeds and thoughts both 

right and wrong,

a deity summoned to give us fortitude, 

to praise us when life goes well,

or someone to curse when we feel

abandoned to face the outcomes of our faults,

an erstwhile vapid identity to blame,

we each have a god that exists within us,

a bespoke god of our own creation 

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/24

~

lost gulls dart across 

a gusting blue black,

screaming silver bullets piercing

a vague roofscape horizon

that dulls to a silhouette

of early evening grey,

randomly, timidly, 

dusk lights begin to 

stab the thin sky cloth 

pulsing pinpricks of

different coloured gems 

blink to tease my eye,

thus, the day’s death 

comes swiftly, all sounds

muffled numb, entombed 

by a smothering cloak,

we animals quieten 

and shy away from the 

jeopardy of the night

we curl lulled into sleep 

shapes, anxiously awaiting

the reassurance of daylight,

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/24

~

looking back over old 

photographs of a village

now a town, 

sepia tinted streetscapes 

from older days that

we weren’t around to be 

eyewitnesses to,

captured precious scenes

on new-fangled cameras

a strange event in itself,

people drawn to venture

out and mill around in

un-posed curious groups

appearing perfectly placed 

in their Sunday Best,

people at ease, inquisitive,

leaving me to wonder

if any of those passive

serious local faces are

those of my relations,

such proud paper ghosts

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/24

~

I keep a small pot of marbles

for when I begin to lose my own,

and sometimes I weigh in my hand 

the old wooden fishing reel

to remember special times with him,

curious, often useful is

an old bus inspector’s punch that 

once belonged to the grandfather 

I never had the pleasure to meet,

another poignant reminder is

the embroidered heart-shaped 

pillow that you made 

that I rested on following 

open heart surgery,

the little chalk 

Old English Sheepdog

always makes me smile as I

remember lovely Holly,

as does the old fat rolling pin

that metered out my mother’s justice,

placed side by side the

beautiful conch shell stolen from

where two oceans meet,

and the 1971 photograph 

of you, my forever only one

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/24

~

I was there, I saw you

crawl feebly from the 

primeval darkness

from that fetid glue into

the fledgling pale light,

I watched you 

take breath stand erect

listen,

grow strong

I looked on as one by one you 

vanquished foes, danger

removed threats formed alliances

fed yourself from the land 

grew stronger

I listened as you sought

knowledge, built machines

and buildings,

I watched you rest 

contented, as you became

strongest

I am here as you watch

the march of time, in vain, 

powerless

the only thing that will

ultimately consume you and

take your strength

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/24

~

by Tuesday afternoon 

on our week away

she had them eating 

from her hand on the patio,

muntjac deer like toys

almost queuing up for

diced carrots and apples, 

~ from inside, with our noses

pressed against the window 

like children outside a 

Christmas toy shop we 

held our breath for fear 

of startling her brave fawns,

~ the forest from whence

they had tentatively stumbled 

was definitely old money if 

there could be such a thing

in woodland parlance,

the trees appearing

shabby but right in their own place

many of them having seen

better days and on life support

from over-verdant undergrowth,

~ as the week went on

we occasionally spotted jays

and woodpeckers too

flitting from trunk to trunk like

multi-coloured hotel inspectors 

rigorously checking out the bark

for evidence of bed bugs

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/24