~

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

~

the words arrive quickly

tumbling out haphazardly

as if spilled onto a table 

for a board game,

~

I stare blankly at them,

some surprise me

leaving me to ponder how

they crept surreptitiously

into such an eclectic mix,

~

over the years I’ve 

learnt to be patient, 

words are an irascible bunch

that can’t be hurried 

or pushed around 

why would they when I 

am always firmly under

their control,

~

many are stoical 

needing much persuasion 

to fulfil my faltering intentions; 

whilst others unashamedly 

flatter me with precocious intent

only to turn-tail as I succumb,

idiotically charmed by their

coercive wiles, so

~

here I am again, conflicted,

a millionaire leper with

an embarrassment of riches

finding the word bank closed,

it is a holiday weekend after all

and words too need a rest

*

© GRS 5/24

~

the ivy needs a cut,

trellised beneath the 

night lights its limp tendrils 

bother an infrequent wave

to an embarking night 

casting a spectral shadow

that easily wakes me

with all else around quiet,

4am and the blackbird choir

are already tuning up high

in the greengage, the

unseen new-born finches 

offer clicking from within 

the damson as if not 

to be outdone,

I listen to Anna dreaming

and imagine the story that she’ll 

hazily recall between each 

spoonful of breakfast muesli,

dawn is both magical and wasteful

chalk and cheese twin sisters

that vie for my eye,

I notice the stone flags are wet

and the cool air tangs with

a whiff of Chardonnay, it’s

grassy herbaceous fingerprint

sprinkled heavily throughout

the leafy shrubs,

from across the street I see

our elderly neighbour Joseph

is already dressed and on the 

move in silhouette, a bobbing 

shadow puppet octogenarian,

these peaceful zen-filled moments 

are precious gifts I often miss

as shadows lift in the emerging 

light, gently reminding me 

the ivy needs a cut

*

© GRS 5/24

~

the Morai, those beauteous 

fates have woven me 

another morning with these 

special friends,

a country walk, a drinking lake

back in the days we

were but schoolboys,

I watch them weave

ahead of me, moving

seamlessly between one 

another, like the water, 

first in twos, now threes 

back to twos but never alone,

arms often drape shoulders

as head move close

as if in faux conspiracy

hands gently slap a back 

or two as if in jest or

conferring payment for 

finding treasured memories

misplaced by the other, 

at lunch, strangely we each 

order the same, like the 

free school meals

we all once quickly scoffed

before the bell rang out

*

GRS 5/24

~

we might be offered

a beautiful sunset,

~

subtle milk blues 

greys and soft pinks 

stretching across the 

wide horizon, thinly 

smeared brushstrokes,

~

should we take notice

we might speak warmly 

of such pleasing colour and 

be cheered by the spectacle 

then go about our business,

~

but tonight, the sky is moving

contrasting colours splashed wide

jostle and rear-up prancing 

trumpeting vertically 

to demand our attention, 

asking for celestial conversation

~

strangely we are speechless

*

GRS 5/24

~

I see Joan most 

Thursdays,

Anna’s mother

ninety-five years old

knocking on the door

of ninety-six if she 

stays well,

~

she’s never been a 

typical mother-in-law, 

with all the connotations

that title carries

just a very good friend 

right from our first date 

when, unexpectedly

I was taken back home 

some fifty-six years ago,

~

she might not suffer fools

but wouldn’t be cruel when 

pointing out their idiocy either

I don’t believe I’ve ever

met anyone as evenly

tempered, although 

Anna might not totally 

agree but that’s mums 

and daughters for you,

~

Joan has the sort 

of face where every part of it

laughs at the same time,

it still does although these days

she covers it with both hands

as if embarrassed to show it

the dynasty will miss her 

when she finally goes, it

currently numbers around forty

I always tell her every

December on her birthday 

that it’s all down to her,

it’s worrying to think that

after she’s gone Anna and I will  

be the oldest in the clan

we’re already half way there

with our offspring and their own 

to form our own dynasty

just the cycle of life I suppose

*

© GRS 5/24

~

few poets know each other well,

relying on their work to 

give insight into the road

they’ve chosen to tread, 

poets’ words should suffice

to paint portraits of

themselves, drawing finer 

pictures than any self

description ever could,

poets’ words detail realism,

fantasies, irony and subtle

tells that can’t be washed

or rinsed away in the pale

detergent of wishful thinking,

poets are tricked by a desire

to be honest but fooled by

the avarice of dishonesty

*

© GRS 5/24

~

don’t tell me, 

I can no longer 

face the shocking news, 

choosing to withdraw 

my interest in affairs 

and situations I am 

powerless to resolve,

they no longer warrant 

my angst and counteract 

the beneficial efficacy 

of my medication, further 

blackening my mood,

send me notice when it’s

over, I can’t be troubled

to keep up to date

I’m too old to feel this 

anger gift-wrapped 

in faux political diatribe, 

It must be left for the youth, 

these awful events 

will give them purpose and 

abhorrent memories

to look back on

*

~

charcoal streaked clouds

are but fleeting shrouds 

to a morose pallid moon

held glumly like a 

tarnished shilling 

an approaching storm drops 

heavy rain fingers, that 

drum on the pane and 

splatter the window sill

like ill-tempered oaths,

I wake up drawn to the

opaque graffiti of the

insidious darkness,

*

© Graham R Sherwood 05/24

~

love has become fiction

our dramatic story unfurls,

I hold you passionately

like a book, both hands

worried you might slip

from my grasp,

late in the night

engrossed I softly thumb

the fine skin down 

your slender spine,

I cannot release you

I am captivated, intently

immersed in your 

richly enticing words,

you shapeshift between

colourful characters

villain, heroine, lover

twisting and turning through

the treacherous plot

our lives have become,

this affair, destined to end

in reckless adventure

my senseless chase

your devastating betrayal

the brevity of a sensual

but doomed reunion,

I wake as your raw slap

stings my cheeks, you

slip from my fingers

and coldly stare back

at my shocked expression,

we’re done, it’s over

another chapter of my

tawdry life expired

*

© Graham R Sherwood 4/24