~

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

~

neither of us were keen to 

venture out in such dire weather

but there were letters to post

 and if anything, the rain was

worsening from lazy drizzle

to a fine dense shower that 

mother was fond of saying

was the ‘rain that wets you’

 ~ after the post office

to reward our endeavour

the rain eased slightly so we

carried on around the lake

which had recently been in spate

but was now just richly coloured

the dull grey of a vicar’s overcoat

the ambivalent sky also offering 

no sign of promise

 ~ picking our steps carefully

along the puddled path 

we at last found something

to cheer the dour day

 a stand of golden cornus

danced along the raised bank

a pantomime chorus line that

stopped us in our muddy tracks

begging for a photograph,

~ so there we stood in the gloom

sunshine on our upturned faces

as the ‘rain that wets you’ 

once again betrayed us creeping

across our sodden shoulders,

a cynical pat on the back

*

© Graham R Sherwood 2/24

~

I wait 

impatiently 

for your drip-fed words,

the self-martyring angst 

that spells out the trials of

your spaghetti western 

chaotic lifestyle,

I’m not sure 

you notice 

that I notice, 

but then again you do

confer cursory thanks

dispensed conveniently

gift wrapped in a stealthy

 wooden horse

artfully painted black, 

are you 

mentor

muse 

or murderer 

I can’t decide

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/24

~

he would always set me up first

until I had learnt to do it for myself

then he’d light up a woodbine

sniff the air, take in the scene

and weigh up the possibilities

before sorting himself out,

apart from both of our rods 

all the tackle was handmade 

fabricated in his shed or from

bits of cannibalised paraphernalia

from the allotment, that he called 

the garden field,

he always looked the same

in his Sunday-best

worn-out tweed sports jacket, 

old suit trousers and wellingtons

folded over at the top,

I don’t ever recall the socks

being introduced to the wash,

we fished quietly amongst

the bankside wild garlic

which he often pulled to add 

to his sharp cheese doorsteps 

eaten with apple slices cut

with his trusty penknife,

it was there, by the Nene 

that I learned patience

how to do things right

and crucially, although I

didn’t realise it at the time

how to become a good father

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/24

~

to start it’s

like reading a book, 

cover to cover

preface to epilogue,

at some place between a

fragile newborn wail

and the hollow farewell

of an ancient’s final breath,

lies a unique story,

in which we are heroes 

or heroines, 

denied a glimpse of the 

evolving plot,

who we’ll meet, 

leave, like, love, 

fight, cheat or fuck,

whether we’re cast in a

short story or epic saga

there will be times we are 

impatient to turn the page, 

and others when we 

cannot bear to look,

characters will come and go, 

who may change the plot 

or merely colour-in blanks,

there will be precipices

to avoid, and forks in the road

to take or choose not,

it’s said, that life

is an open book and

one thing is certain

to surprise,

the end

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/24

~

as we crested the brow of the hill

and looked down across the

gentle sweep of the land

two fields away, across 

the dull ochre plough 

as we were about to lose

the light, a movement

rising above the canopy

that smudged our horizon, 

you asked if it was smoke,

then you realised, surprised,

a languorous sweep of balletic 

atoms forming and reforming

with the grace of black chiffon

taken up on the wind,

we both suggested shapes

that dispersed faster than

our words could take flight

leaving you to question 

if these creatures knew

how beautiful they were

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/24

~

what do they say? 

in that hackneyed phrase,

you can take the man

out of the place, but not 

the place out of the man,

I go back there more now

to see the old boys, catch up

over coffee, face the jeopardy 

of a recycled raffle prize win,

I’m careful to never be more

than a visitor, it wouldn’t do 

to look too comfortable, 

act like I owned the place

attract unwanted attention, 

be the ‘big I am’,

you see I left them all,

was unfaithful once

never to be forgotten

I tore myself away, perhaps

the old place wasn’t good 

enough for him 

I can imagine they said,

and such treachery, well,

it can’t ever be forgotten,

so, I move carefully through 

recounting old times, schoolboy 

japes, games we played, 

secret places, girls we knew

who married who and

where they are now, 

but no matter how much 

I’d like to be embraced

I can never be more than

the one that got away

who ‘did alright’, who broke 

the invisible chain,

no matter how pleased

they seem to see me

back in the village, 

home again, the link hangs there

fractured and rusting

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/24

~

it makes me choke

and want to wretch and spit,

hearing people banging on

about the past and those who

profited out of it,

as if their own lives gleam

are untouched by the grime,

and filthy stench of

human beings cheaply traded in 

another place, another time,

I’ve never owned a slave

killed a man or made a war,

I’m been nothing but a loyal

worker, husband, father, so 

what should I feel guilty for?

it strikes me that those who

scratch the scabs of the past,

are woke sixth-form politicos 

spilling forth in-vogue mantras

to a £3 Starbucks made to last

all afternoon, whilst bunking school

to google essays and copy factual shit,

whilst talking down those who

helped shape their world of privilege

with ipads, iphones, designer kit,

the past is for learning from

for shaping better things to come,

so, roll your sleeves up, do a shift

bang your own, not 

some other person’s drum

*

© Graham R Sherwood 01/24