old decorations sadly gutter-drip 

in sequence along the street

a natural synchronicity fuelled 

by today’s reliably forecast rain,

they hang nervously, lank,

feeble, unlit in daytime, they

blink naively timed at night

there is a crisis after all

for goodness sake!

but hark thresholds beckon, 

doorways stand ajar, gates swing

as do beginnings and ends,

wars, peace, new lives traded 

for deaths, bargains struck, 

deals made,

we dare to glance both ways

call adieu to yesterday and 

warily greet our tomorrows with an

unsure weightless step

thus, with the decision made

for that nanosecond 

we too may feel like gods

*

© Graham R Sherwood 12/22

Maggie calls it

the lost and found park 

after her first visit there, obviously!

it’s quite a fair hike for her little legs,

past two fields that are gradually turning 

into new houses and

rather bizarrely, for a bridal path

across a busy road that appears 

like an equatorial river

suddenly blocking our path 

from behind the hedgerow,

then it’s a slippy footpath across some 

prime Oxfordshire plough,

the winter wheat just through,

pale green whiskery stubble

like a five o’clock shadow

poking up defiantly after snow,

before skirting Goldilocks’ 

chocolate box cottage

where we have to whisper and 

tread carefully as we pass,

precariously over the brook plank, the orchard

the new oak barn and we’re there,

there’s a party in the cricket pavilion

across the boundary

and in the near-distance,

somewhere a raucous howling,

someone is boning-up

on their poor bagpipe skills,

nearing Hogmanay no doubt,

on the way back, tired legs

complain unsuccessfully before

Maggie spots the old man

in Goldilocks’ garden and 

asks him if he’s her daddy

and more importantly where the bears are,

she’s told they are asleep

in the loft after their porridge 

and she seems okay with that

but we still need to be quiet

she says, as we tiptoe by

*

© Graham R Sherwood 12/22

I consider it

lying there looking

too pleased with itself

brand spanking new

taut cellophane cover

fitting skin-smooth

it puts up a decent fight

before finally submitting

to my child-like rip-tearing

then comes that virgin smell

that instantly identifiable 

unblemished aroma tang,

that I hurriedly deflower

with scribbled birthdays

to make my first mark

I brazenly flick-fan the pages

as if sniffing a wad

of used banknotes, 

the light draft of newness 

is already beginning to wane,

then the first proper entry 

La Boheme in March

a gift of perfect music

a whole new year’s pages

impatiently waiting

to once again record

the ‘who knows what’

of my life

*

© Graham R Sherwood 12/22

tortured gnarled bark 

the ancients stand watch

careful measured stoical

bathed in purple pink 

blue and gold, thus,

gaudily adorned

they exhale but feel 

sadly mocked

*

© Graham R Sherwood 12/22

a sombre holly leaf

held gently between

finger and thumb

its oily sheen 

smooth as soap, 

wet reptilian skin

dull green, tortured

custard-dipped spears

cocked this way and that

search for blood

*

© Graham R Sherwood 12/22

four pings unusual

interrupt breakfast

family checking-in

within minutes 

of each other

urgent revelations

-13 here

-11 us

-9 at work

positively balmy 

at home only -7

a competition?

possible

a bidding war?

unlikely

or is it just the planet

kicking our arses 

yet again

*

© Graham R Sherwood 12/22

timidly, I’m wary to draw my breath

reluctant in the bare steel chill

that catches my throat like a razor,

both nostrils raw and sore, 

sting as my breath billows, 

puthering like cooling tower steam,

it’s the first snowfall and our

fragile world typically 

grinds to a halt whining,

the dusting is early this year

climate change no doubt but

February might be tropical,

in the meantime, it’s hot soup

sourdough toast

and looking back curiously

over old words

*

Graham R Sherwood 12/22

I

to tell you the truth

I last saw her outside

The Star of the West

on Christmas Eve

looking like she was

about to drop a calf

with a young bloke that

my mother would have 

said, ‘wasn’t from around here’,

she looked all done in

round near the toilets

at the back sitting 

on the car park wall,

pretty girl!

II

well it was going off

down at The Star on

Boxing Day morning,

I shot in for a quick pint

and bumped in to Bill

Shepherd and his lads

doing the same

before the footie,

well it sounds like all hell

broke loose after closing

time Christmas eve,

that young girl and her bloke

I was telling you about

were found spark out

in one of the cubicles

holding a new-born sprog

a hell of a mess

paper towels everywhere,

they refused to have an 

ambulance called and

damned near legged it

when Daphne went to phone,

something’s not right

so Daph called Irene instead

to come and tidy her up

III

well it seems word got out

about that palaver

on Christmas Eve

because three fellas

evidently turned up asking

after her and her chap,

Jim said he thought they looked

a bit like social workers

as they were well-dressed

so, he let them into the snug

before opening time

and the couple came down

for a chat with them

Daph stayed up to look 

after the baby

Jim made out he was tidying

behind the bar in case

there was any trouble,

then Daph came down

with the little’un and

they seemed quite taken

with him

‘it’s a boy by the way’

who was as good as gold

all through it all,

they left her some stuff

for the little lad

to tide them over for a bit,

I think Jim said they were

off home soon

to face the music,

one thing is for sure

Jim and Daphne won’t

Forget this Christmas

in a hurry, Daphne’s face

has been lit up ever since

*

© Graham R Sherwood 12/22

it’s not kept up there

on the special trophy shelf 

with other myriad mementos

his tankard the war medals

silver pocket watch et al

it has no status

holds no pride of place 

swinging from a rusty hook

on the back wall of the garage

it shares a dark corner

with an old cobwebbed 

trout net

his old tenon saw

beech handle brass spine

still as good as new

honest, a workmanlike tool

made to last in those days,

it beats those other facile 

heirlooms that gather dust

hands down

its patina reflecting images

of cupboards once made

table legs carefully sawn

snug dovetails cut by eye,

but it’s when I hold it

using my left

(his would have been the right)

my fingers tucked in, 

like a child holding a parent’s hand

thumb curled over secure,

I can see his breath spill

over my shoulder

like fine sawdust and

hear his encouraging words

steady, true, take your time

this is how I stay in touch

him gone now some 

thirty years or more but

with this one old tool

I can still hold his hand

*

© Graham R Sherwood 12/22

I wrote words for you

bold words

words that bled 

the whispered words 

of lovers

oblivious to all else

happily willingly lost 

in a torrid ferment that

neither of us needed

nor wanted to understand

and yet 

here we are

a lifetime later, 

like gently maturing wine

nothing left to prove

giving of our best, and

even now

I might catch you 

standing there

face turned toward

the winter sunshine

eyes still as star-bright

as when we were both

seventeen

*

Graham R Sherwood 11/22