~

buried in the small print

that few will ever read, is

every possible scenario

that taking this pill may cause

as well as the one intended

conveniently leaving death

to the very end, reassuring,

for me it’s a form of tinnitus, 

not unpleasant, 

like rubbing cloth

then it begins

its imminent arrival, 

starts at my nose, a stinging chill

swiftly moving down my arms

goose bumps appear, then

a shudder through my body

lasting only a second or two,

my mother would have said 

someone’s just walked over my grave

and then as quickly as it came

it’s gone, strange!

all this hidden, buried

somewhere in the small print

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/23

~

there’s every shade of green here

pale limes through to darker sages

a watercolour wash panorama

painted across a lean paper-fold horizon,

it’s still cold for early April, 

a chill vainly grips our breath 

unwilling to give way

to the catkins and blossom that 

have started to colour-in the gaps,

a good friend of mine paints 

whilst I fumble with sketching pencils 

but I’m better with words

and impatiently abandon my

crude drawing effort to go to verse 

scribbling pell-mell in the margins,

we never try to look at each other’s work, 

with neither claiming prowess

there’s no need of that

it’s enough to steal away and enjoy

the quiet, the silent company

the knowing and the pleasure

of just spending time

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/23

~

the farthing bird

minute feathered ball, 

a staccato dart 

freeze-framed with  

taut-tail cocked, 

a fleet of foot falsetto 

churr-chatterer and

riddler of reveries, 

the tiniest talisman

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/23

~

those poor people

must be desperate,

forced to flee

home and family,

they have so little and

have been through

so much already,  

they deserve a break

it must have been

a nightmare 

risking life and limb

alone just to get here,

but one thing is sure

this isn’t the right place 

for them, it wouldn’t be

a good idea to let them 

live around here!

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/23

~

It’s said when men sleep

they often adopt a foetal pose

cradling the body part 

they hold most dear,

when I can’t sleep

my index-finger

circles the bony knot, 

where my ribcage was 

bolted back together

nothing else left to show,

resting on this smooth 

protrusive mound

as Rodin’s sculpture

I am set to thought

In quiet I  

feel my heart beat

a rhythmic bump

akin to an errant 

juggling ‘thud’ falling

to a hard floor, or 

a tramp steamer’s 

mechanical piston

dour chug on a calm ocean,

somewhat reassuring,

and mindful of the

overwhelming fragility 

of my existence

the perpetual reminder 

that none of us know 

the duration of this game 

we all play

I count my blessings

tempus fugit

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/23

~

at La Boheme

Friday night

in a provincial town

Royal Opera House

it’s definitely not,

 our fateful young lovers

a little long in the tooth

but we understand why

the singing is superb, 

passion oozing from pores,

 arias exquisite

a tragic denouement plays out

the final curtain falls

generous applause follows,

then something strange

catching everyone off-guard

blue-gold flags unfurl

a foreign anthem sung

 a new aria for the age,

 hair bristles, goose bumps

an inexplicable shiver,

we dab at our tears

applause thrice greater

louder, longer than for 

Puccini’s star-crossed tale,

Humbly, we are thanked 

for our support at this 

most difficult of times,

the ensemble’s words

superfluous

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/23

~

we spoke again on the telephone

this morning, sadly the first time 

for quite a while, it’s been too long,

you’re eighty-two, me seventy-one

teacher and pupil, a lifetime, 

an unlikely friendship, 

you were a man, me a mere boy

the ten years difference 

a chasm in those days

respect and deference vital

you transforming a young life

without even knowing,

now we speak together

as old friends, equals, 

it was difficult at first

using your forename, it was

never done back in the day,

we talk of politics, sport

grandchildren and of course we

reminisce the victories

and inevitably our health, yours

failing, mine slowly following suit,

as if being trained

one final time to go out 

in yet another blaze of glory

*

©Graham R Sherwood 03/23

~

a mixed bag of clouds shape-shift

south-west across a bustling sky, 

a tumbling slow-motion 

hand-cranked feature film 

backdrop, worn threadbare 

with hotchpotch skimpy 

patches of sailors’ blue,

they glide lazily 

over the cityscape,

passive day trippers 

on a mystery tour, impatiently

longing for afternoon tea,

it’s Friday 3pm, and five 

skeletal giraffe cranes, 

rested for the weekend, 

strike a tortured pose like 

dormant ‘meccano’ models,

closer to the ground the city’s 

arteries throb and jostle in a

synchronizing discord, 

pulsing through the concrete lanes

lifeblood going home to rest

so, we doze, we graze, 

we drink, we love 

we breed, we die

we gratefully bask 

in the company of friends 

until all too soon

Monday dawns

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/23

~

long ago

there were gods,

at their name mortals 

cowered, were afraid,

once gods sowed 

omens good or bad 

fed fortune harmony

misfortune too

famine, plenty, 

peace and war, 

mortals did as bid

unthinkingly

without questioning,

until the day

one man looked up

into the heavens and

asked of the gods

why are you immortal

when I am not?

*

Graham R Sherwood 03/23

~

it’s a special day

for both of us

he’s taking me somewhere 

I’ve never been

but he knows I will like,

I’m not driving for once

know none of the details

times, places, which route

and the like

that’s very unusual for me

letting go of control, but

he’s confident, unflappable

I am like a package

being handled with care,

I never had the chance 

to do this with my father

and I told my son this today,

so, we have made a pact

to seize this day and 

many more while we can

before it’s too late.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/23