~

the 4am pigeon 

is late on parade 

as dawn finally deigns to

lift her cloudy skirts,

I seem to have 

nodded off in the stalls 

and am rudely nudged by

a doody-doo-ing 

repeat refrain from 

a silver waist-coated pigeon 

unsteadily tottering around

the rim of the birdbath,

a rotund music hall tenor

still full of last night’s ale,

my grumpy staccato applause

delivered through the open pane

sees him take a bow

and exit stage left

in much of a hurry, 

me half-blindly stumbling 

on the stairs, also exit 

in search of the teapot

*

© Graham R Sherwood 06/23

~

I never made him angry

enough to strike me

he left all that to mother,

I did make him cry once

with pride at my being

one of England’s best one year,

We fished from time to time

quietly, as was done

on those halcyon Sundays

each knowing the other,

When I left, to make my way

mother cried, he did not

his handshake said it all,

Now, as a father I understand 

his hurt and keep face

just the same

*

© Graham R Sherwood 06/23

~

could we be wrong?

are shadows merely unwilling

accomplices to the secret

movement of light,

chased, urged forward 

prodded, pushed, 

reluctantly seeking out 

the safety and respite

of crevices, angles, corners

in the vain quest for rest,

shadows appear creeping silently

like spectres dissolving as quickly 

as hope, viscous but liquid 

in their stealthy movement,

many of us fear shadows, 

the quiet, the dark, the cool 

sometime damp breath 

that shadows exhale, but 

they are victims too

*

© Graham R Sherwood 06/23

~

a semi-circle of disparate chairs

here and there a shiny wheelchair

squeezed in-between

like a new dental filling 

amongst browning molars,

arranged thus

the occupants appear worn-out

in varying states of decline

resembling vehicles cannibalized

for parts peacefully awaiting the crusher

different models all pointing

in the same direction,

like old vehicles, age and damage

vary considerably due to

roads previously travelled,

some occupants start on the

second-turn whilst some require

a jump-start, some a nudge,

milky tea is the fuel of choice

drawn by the gallon from a

battered ‘Tommy Oliver’ 

scalding in the kitchen,

once a week, a special treat!

a local spare-time Sinatra comes

to croon hoping there’s still life left

in their hooded headlamps,

for his star-turn hour 

at least,

few kick out legs for his

New York New York

but some fragile chassis

might still tilt and sway

for the final song

each thinking back

to times long gone,

I lived this life, 

I did it My Way

*

© Graham R sherwood 06/23

~

in the newly drawn dark, 

unruly gusts in a stiffening breeze

grumble and billow angrily 

through the canopy nearing full leaf, 

they growl like beach surf

only to cower away meekly 

as quickly as they came

yielding once more to 

the vacuum of the night quiet,

the sleep ‘ghasts’ play out

their macabre shadow

charades across the ceiling,

imaginary creatures with more

legs, horns and teeth 

than could ever be useful,

inventions that poker the

embers of my insomnia

into feeble flames,

 for a distraction I recount 

the high points of my day 

as if revising for a test

with one ear on the distance

where the next tsunami is

already making plans to

crash upon the quivering trees,

 I seek out clever words that 

never come to heel when bidden

before I realize, cold notebook 

flat against my nose

the danger has passed

none of it real or perhaps 

the jumbled glyphs and scribble

within may just be a clue

*

© Graham R Sherwood 06/23

~

it’s a pretty walk

through a cool avenue

beneath oak and lime 

once a part of Arden, 

the trees sprawl a little 

haphazardly now, 

a mixed bag, still 

welcome all the same

on this first flame of June,

the tiny church built in

leftover stone blocks 

from the big house

that are too large for 

its timid footprint, seems 

embarrassed to sit there

meekly hunkered down 

half-hidden in uncut grass

inside, a family 

with two teens in tow

all clad in over-tight 

football livery including a ball

sit jammed in one short pew

like jelly babies in detention, 

thankfully surprisingly,

they are reverently silent,

the aging notices everywhere 

beseech us for upkeep donations

and bizarrely in such antiquity 

proclaim ‘eco’ credentials 

religion gone green, 

perhaps it’s the lichen 

covering the tombs outside,

as we depart the jelly babies

already outside 

bounce the ball

off eco-gravestones 

that cringe askew

like spat out teeth, 

sadly there is no sign of 

parental censure from no: 7 or 9,

*

© Graham R Sherwood 06/23

~

watch them, they’ll circle twice 

to get their bearings

and be off,

my puerile ‘how do they’ enquiry 

answered without

a hint of condescension by

a portly man in a tweed jacket,

it was his old Austin Countryman 

which drew my attention; 

immaculate, not show-perfect

but exceptionally well looked-kept,

he struggled somewhat to

remove the F&M style wicker

hamper from its rear seats, that he’d

judiciously covered in newspaper,

then from a clear space the lid

was quickly thrown open

the contents spilling out as if

their lives depended on this

one last gasp chance of freedom,

a raucous clap, flap, slapping

akin to a round of applause 

mayhem ascending into a chaotic 

pattern above my head 

that quickly shaped  

to form a dynamic flock that cruised 

on an initial flypast as if sniffing the breeze

before one final low pass 

as if to say ‘race you home’ 

and they were gone

*

© Graham R Sherwood 06/23

~

never a specific date and

doesn’t depend on the 

proclivities of Easter 

or the position of a 

precocious moon,

~

not on temperature or 

a succession of sunny days

or due to a particular letter

or the lack of it 

in a certain month,

~

not the altitude, number or 

position of nesting birds

the changing of clocks or 

the changing of clouts

~

no! summer begins 

with a gentle sound

the rattle and scrape 

of a brittle brush, the 

melodious snip of twine

being cut and tied,

runner bean canes

are cleansed and

lean together in discourse

for what the new season 

might have in store

*

© Graham R Sherwood 05/23

~

I’m alone but only

for the afternoon, it

got me thinking, seriously,

is this what it would be like

without you?

at a loose end

measuring minutes 

between meals,

as for food

I bought a ready-meal,

lasagne, it’s not my 

favourite by a long chalk

I’m no cook, it says

thirty minutes at 180-fan

whatever that means,

middle of the oven

I nearly forgot to take

the plastic film off,

my glass of wine for one

stands there, ominous

like a poisoned chalice,

sometime ago

when we discussed dying

I always told you that

I hoped you’d go first

the thought of leaving you

alone unbearable,

but now

looking at this bloody sad

tin tray of lasagne

I’m not so sure

*

© Graham R Sherwood 05/23

~

I measure distance 

in my head 

using a simple rationale, 

how long would it take 

for me to get there?

that’s all well and good if

I can see my destination, or I

have a map or know someone

who’s already made the 

journey and can advise me,

but then I consider space

where none of these 

rules hold true, 

for example a light year

in space terms

a mere pigeon-step 

is six trillion miles!

I have no clue

how to fathom this

my brain closes down, 

looking to the moon, which

I feel can almost touch 

I feel very small

an insignificant microbe

a speck of dust in the 

unfathomable nothingness

*

© Graham R Sherwood 05/23