~

as expected we queue 

resignedly, with becalmed complicity 

toward yet another bottleneck,

my minds-eye drifts back

to a previous lifetime where

I am gunning south on the

Great North Road.

It’s early in the roaring twenties

on a stink wheel Rudge Python,

the fog’s as thick as custard 

sodden oilskins drip

clinging head to foot,

I witness vague grey hallucinations 

dancing around my head 

as piercing eyes like twin 

searchlights cleave the smog 

a startled back-arched cat 

is keening through the mire 

from a grassy carrousel

as we slow to a crawl 

creeping past the gatekeeper 

like frightened timid mice

senses regained

a century on with

nine lives nearly spent

by damage, theft, graffiti

and sundry pranks galore

the nameless puss still scowls

as we mice 

having multiplied

no longer fear her glare!

*

© Graham R Sherwood 12/23

~

there’s a certain age 

in one’s youth

not a fixed date, 

when for all of us 

a door opens in the soul

and music floods in,

we thrash around excitedly

within its hypnotic balm,

bathe, cavort, dance, fuck

alive to beauteous tunes, 

but those magical days 

slide by, passing unnoticed

on a blissful lazy current

and inch by inch the 

all-consuming deluge subsides

leaving its indelible watermark

that inks us for a lifetime,

it’s this invisible brand 

we still touch with 

fingertips and tongues

tapping out the rhythms

of that lost youthful time,

that daring, care-free, reckless

maniacal age when we 

all could have drowned

but luckily learned to swim

*

© Graham R Sherwood 12/23

~

It’s right to say

we can’t believe our eyes,

we’re human after all

our faculties fail and dim,

brains calibrate shape

to make sense, although

sometimes get it wrong,

but still millions believe

in things they cannot see

a blind faith belief, never 

dimming or wavering,

now cameras also lie

photographs amended

bodies constructed by

technology, where little 

is real and believable,

but still we believe

it’s easier

*

© Graham R Sherwood 12/23

~

mist bound, the land reflects the sky

densely hazed the sky in turn 

reflects the land, casting an

occluded pale brittle light,

that worries all above and around,

an unsettled milk hued soft-focus

day, has draped its cape haphazardly

across my panoramic vision,

I am spellbound, bemused, 

cowed and perplexed

hankering for a friendly sign

*

© Graham R Sherwood

~

it’s the first of the month

and honed anticipation

tempered by our due respect

at last gives way,

once more the boxes

come out into the light

exhumed from the darkness

eagerly reawakened for a 

joyous festive reunion

we impatiently vie to unwrap

the beauteous faces

each mummified in tissue, 

precious jewels

that beam warm memories

a year, a place, a time, a child

and like a new-born,

we cradle each one lovingly

before they take their 

special places,

beacons to give us hope

and share our peace

*

© Graham R Sherwood 12/23

~

I am woken 

to your rhythmic night noises,

an alternating lilt between 

inhale and exhale,

that puts me in mind of the

hushed attention accorded

to the Saturday teatime 

football results presenter,

East Fife four Forfar five

in a melodic singsong grumble

annoying and reassuring

in equal measure, vying for

a hard-fought score-draw

only defeated in extra time

as you self-wake, then

a dissatisfied crackle akin to 

the crumpled coupon

striking the back of the grate

and bursting into flames

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/23

~

look Papa!

come and see this, 

it’s beautiful,

resignedly, 

I traipse upstairs, 

old knee injury creaking

in unison with the treads,

an emerging sunrise, 

ten years old

her perfect eyes

big as saucers watch

the silhouetted city skyline 

lit by a deep 

salmon curtain rising slowly

to breathe new life 

into yet another day,

shepherds’ warning, I mutter

eliciting a bemused look from

now quizzical, still perfect eyes

as I recite the rhyme,

and in it goes

another fragment of me in her

filed away for future use

perhaps one day recalled

for her own child

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/23

~

first to the party, 

in fact any celebration,

arriving incognito, 

as few know you 

by your real name,

all the same you would

be sorely missed if

you failed to show,

a ‘poor girl done good’

transcending humble

beginnings, now at home

from Mayfair to Manhatten

a globetrotting superstar,

the original and best

twenty-first century

working-class socialite

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/23

~

bard, 

too short a word

to fill such genius shoes,

one syllable that 

birthed soliloquys

all too meagre recompense for

comedies or tragedies alike,

we know the work

no so the man,

such perfect words

beauty too rich for use

polish our tongue

adding rich sauce to

poor mans’ meat

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/23

~

(Shin-Bet-Tav, meaning to cease, to end, or to rest).

we have had our time,

and on

beauty will always fade

how could it not?

blooms perish, spent,

the once radiant golden rays

that struck unlikely planes

under the vigour of a

searching summer sun

pale to deeply burnished

dulling copper and bronze,

the year tires 

and makes ready, one final 

chagrined gentle shrug

and her multicoloured coat

dripping with sorrow 

slides to carpet our feet,

and we rest

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/23