grey smears and splashes

in subtly differing hues 

watermark an unusually bright sky,

~

a hastily drawn, if clumsy

pastel sketch, beautiful

for its natural composition

~

on this capricious unresolved

half-and-half day,

snow is awaited, like Godot

~

old people watch and talk

plucking memories, like cherries

from the air with their eyes,

~

some, eyebrows are raised in hope

others in consternation, knit close

like angrily folded arms

~

thoughts precede words

which sweep in like a tide

brief, transient, ephemeral

~

they must be quickly grasped

before they are forfeit, 

ebbing vaguely toward the ether,

~

nearby the young collide

fearless chaotic fireflies 

immune to consequence or damage

~

on this see-saw of a day

multicoloured visitors busy

the hive like worker bees,

~

they do not bring, 

but relish taking home sustainable 

neatly packaged nectar

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/23

here we are, loosely assembled

like old furniture in tidy clothes

as near as damn it black

to neatly parcel off another,

–

secretively we peruse the turnout

and of course, the grieving

gaunt-faced family members

forced together at the front,

–

with nothing more to see

we consider, as art connoisseurs

the easel and a portrait

of the recently departed

set neatly to the side,

each of us thinking, not saying

how long since it was captured,

the background and 

unseasonal weather a give-away,

–

trite recollections of a life then follow

that no-one will remember later

spilling out like counterfeit coins

tumbling down a drain,

–

these precede the toe-curling tunes

three old smash-hits each destined

for heaven or hades, it all depends,

–

then the after-tea, some come back

the cleverest don’t, 

for those that do the angst of knowing

when to politely take their leave,

for a long drive home, juggling

memories and remember whens

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/23

~

my view has changed,

not my opinions

my view has changed

180 degrees, front to back

a dramatic reversal,

yesterday a leafy

sedately quiet cul-de-sac

today, a vibrant cityscape

I have moved office, not 

without guilt I must add

and there has been blood,

I have been forced to cull

my beloved library

one hundred volumes

recycled to charity, to be

re-homed elsewhere but

by whom I now wonder?

outside in the dark

the new cityscape bristles 

with cynical pin-pricks 

of light, near-distant eyes 

asking, accusing,

‘what’s wrong 

what have you done’

*

© Graham R sherwood 02/23

~

both hands, the stoic hour 

and promiscuous minute

temporarily hold station

and lurk tardily between

numerals two and three

there being no second hand

to give any semblance 

of the passage of time,

following surgery, 

I feel every heartbeat

and have become my own 

personal timepiece,

tossing and turning like a child 

told to stay in bed until

the little hand strokes 

the distant seven,

a life spent solving peoples’

problems, causes me to lie

awake, an insomniac hitchhiker

expectantly awaiting the sun

to broach the horizon and

lift me into a new day

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/23

~

I rattled the door knocker

of your mum’s old house

but you were out, so I stuck

it through the letterbox,

the road not wide enough

to turn the car around

I had to reverse back out,

as kids we used to play in 

this street, only three cars in

the whole length of it in those

days, now it’s a slalom,

the old wrought iron two-armed

lamp posts we used to hang from

are long gone, so too

the unfinished dirt patch 

at the dead-end 

overlooking the farmer’s field,

we’d spend days digging 

flints out of it with lolly sticks 

years before Time Team was a thing,

and to think, all those old faces 

that used to stand at their 

front gates watching us kids play

nattering to neighbours

they’re all dead now,

I was born in No2, just after the

Festival of Britain finished,

growing up I knew every person

in every house and their pets,

I notice some of those original front doors 

still stand strong, like gravestones

without names of course,

some of my blood has been spilt

in this street and splinters galore

from scaling garden fences, to retrieve

footballs and cricket balls,

I’m glad you’ve moved back, it’s a

reason for returning here

although a lot has changed

there again

I suppose we’ve all changed

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/23

~

it could appear careless, as if we

hadn’t looked where we were going,

 hadn’t read the signs, minded our step

or heeded the many warnings,

then our world changed,

our vast but fragile landscape

re-drawn into a desperate 

alien horror-scape cemetery

of chaotic rubble tombs,

now we realise

we have been tricked, duped into

thinking our safety was assured,

our children were safe 

the future sound, secure

but hope has fallen through 

the cracks and with it 

our paper-thin trust

we are buried alive

and are dying

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/23

~

were you to watch me

secretly, 

like a spirit wraith 

you would notice I am 

a reluctant warrior, 

slow to violence albeit 

often forced to combat the 

facile discord and menaces 

that populate my dreams,

in that benign theatre 

of my psyche, where, 

unbidden my supernatural 

valour plays out amongst 

the vapid checks and pulses 

of the night, 

where timid thoughts transgress 

becoming worthy deeds,

where frailties unknowingly

combust into fortitude,

I am a dormant hero

a chameleon

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/23

~

on a mild pale grey blue day

a precious gift this early in the year,

the garden taunts me to 

come out to play tidy-up,

so pestered, I submit passively

swiftly donning rustic clothes,

gardens are beguiling places

enchanted lands where good

intentions fall spellbound to

wood sirens, leaf nymphs and

ochred succubi of the soil,

thus my bladed weapons

rendered useless and

under the hypnotic magic of

the untouched ruddy beauty

lying in wait there

I quell my vigour, sate my brio

and scurry back indoors satisfied

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/23

~

we cleanse ourselves in icy waters 

to purify our souls, for days are short 

and of the essence,

I await the sublime capricious beauty

who stalks this land, 

eyes of amethyst pierce my heart

a brazen ring of pearl to kiss

and snow-cloaked winged feet,

transfixed, my frozen stare 

my pure white love, 

briefly traps her frigid gaze,

she brusquely shakes her snowy cape

spreading violets and the primrose

and in a blink is gone.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/23

~

as a child, I would often hear my mother say,

if life’s matters became addled,

‘there’s nowt so queer as folk’

or if feeling charitable

‘it takes all sorts to make this world turn’, 

otherwise she mostly saw things

black and white,

my father kept tighter counsel

an expressive facial repertoire 

replacing unnecessary words

leaving none unsure of his

true sentiments

rarely losing his temper over

events outside of his domain

to him a lass was a woman

a chap was a man, a child a child

he saw no other categories,

sometimes I’m glad he’s

no longer alive in my world

*

© Graham R Sherwood 01/23