taking care not to slip

I overstride the bottom stair

of November 

and keen my ear

as the fates murmur their annual

carol of hope wishes and dreams

for the arrival of a white Christmas,

~

a passive glance to the pathetic

stinging drizzle outside augers

treacherously long odds

albeit much can happen in a month,

~

early decorations have already

begun to blossom like gaudy 

houseplants on windowsills

and hearths with faux icicles 

draping and dripping from 

moss-filled gutters,

~

at the school gates children

spill out humming favourite

songs of praise and wonder

ahead of nativities and concerts

and for that brief moment

I close my eyes 

transcend the dampness in the air

and still believe

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/22

I think this will be it,

the last time we witness

belief, wonder and trust,

 belief in the myth 

we’ve gladly perpetuated

each year

whilst watching the

the wonder in her blazing

saucer-sized eyes,

this year we know

the bubble will burst

and with it the

first crack in her naivety 

and she will never fully trust

us ever again

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/22

a small space

it morphs between

a prison cell and a womb

both forms of incarceration

hopeless and hopeful

‘old threepenny-bit

wooden fishing reel

small boomerang

pencil plane‘

of course, there are books galore 

all read many outdated 

cladding the walls 

begging for re-use and 

a leftie Martin acoustic

lonely in the corner pretending 

to give me the cold shoulder

‘bottle of ink

grandma’s rolling pin

cricket ball

school certificate

pewter tastevin‘

there’s a window to look out

another to look into, which

sports an unerring cursor blink

sarcastically recording my

inadequate productivity

‘cricket ball

fountain pen

French house sign

wooden bottle‘

a cornucopia of mementos 

sit scornfully too

abandoned favourites now forlorn

ruefully gathering dust

‘ancient whistle

clippy’s punch

Rubik’s cube

champagne cork‘

it’s a small space

ten foot by five

hardly the place to get lost

but somehow I always do

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/22

an unseasonal oppressive torpidity 

envelopes a bland peculiarly

milky November sun,

three tired old men

overdressed for midweek matters

squat snugly on an overpainted 

wrought iron bench,

shoulder to shoulder

like fat budgerigars,

they occasionally shuffle

their feet and wave their hands 

as tap-dancing mothers might 

to shoo away pestering children

thus discouraging the squabbling pigeons

that mither over fast food detritus,

one man passively considers

the irritating persistence

of the scavenging birds

afloat in a ketchup-smeared 

polystyrene barge,

a second nostalgically regards

the reckless lunging tackles

of schoolboy footballers

caged within a rusting

long abandoned tennis court,

the third stares intently

with the considered appreciation

of a competition judge

awaiting a likely knicker flash

from the young girl on the swing

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/22

millions lie spent

lifeless sodden pallid gaunt

leaves and dead soldiers

(Remembrance Haiku)

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/22

poets write of the weather,

of the subtle merging of seasons

the gentle elemental spillage

as elements collide,

water vanquishes fire

light is masked by shade, 

and birth concedes to death,

poets record these changes

be they mundane or sublime,

distilling colours aromas sights

textures voices

in such beguiling word pictures

they seek to beautify us all

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/22

it’s so important, for me

when I open a bottle of wine

to be able to say

I know this man, I’ve witnessed

his passion, I’ve held his hand

the hand that made this wine,

I have eaten at his table, looked

into his eyes, glass in hand

and shown my gratitude 

without needing to speak

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/22

it’s in my blood,

this ache to return

to have a poke around, 

see what’s changed

it was my home once 

I lived here, was born here

I flit back occasionally,

a moth to a flame 

chaotic unplanned visits 

with scant regularity

  ~                                  

“don’t be concerned, 

 it will not harm you

 it’s only me pursuing 

 something I’m not sure of”

~

then my Libra takes over

weighing things in the

emotional balance

you shouldn’t have returned

you left for a better life

outside, somewhere else

don’t you understand

you don’t belong here

~

“tell me over and over 

and over again my friend”

~

so, I walk the lanes slowly

for fear of waking memory ghosts

asleep behind the russet stones

~

“listen do you want to know a secret”

~

they slumber these long years

a dormant cast 

museum exhibits,

faces only I can see, wait for me

~

“every time that you walk in the room”

~                                    

the old friends I see

are now truly old but 

recall only their young faces

 blood brothers I once knew

played with, laughed with, 

cried with, would have died for

walks seemed longer then

trees taller, roads safer,

days warmer

~

“watching and waiting 

for a friend to play with” 

~                  

innocence long gone

past girlfriends gone

taken as wives, now mothers

old adversaries 

some long dead, 

now benign as am I

old warriors seeing sense

teenage vendettas cold

 let sleeping dogs lie

~

“first there were heartaches, 

then there were tears”

~

I stand head bowed

bad places, blood on the road

a phone box, a bus stop

an ale jug, a tea towel

a chip shop, a moped

two lying dead

~

“Oh lord, please don’t let 

me be misunderstood”

~

these days I walk the lanes 

slowly, there is too much to see

 the music too loud

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/22

half-term, unpaid childcare

what else would we do, the place 

comes highly recommended 

not an arm and a leg to get in

it sounds familiar

only half an hour by car

we’re on

we’re hooked

we’re off

it’s busy obviously

half term remember

logs delineate parking spaces

4×4 city picnic world, kid haven

the publicity is bang-on

It’s very very good

good adventure playground

good hiking and cycling

and most important of all

bloody good coffee

kids smother the climbers

ropes slides and tunnels

like killer ants

their chorale noises both 

enchant and assault my ears

we set up base-camp

so she knows where 

to come back to for lunch

as she becomes a killer ant

I need a pee, bloody furosemide

and go in search of one

on the way back it hits me

a flash of retrospection

the church across the valley

St Peter’s, the lakes much 

gentrified now but still familiar

I’m upwind of the kids cacophony

all I can hear is the rattle 

of reeds and bulrushes

pranked by the slightest zephyr

and the dapping of ripples

like supping trout

I used to fish here, with him

my late father

could only have been about eight

no more than ten for sure

they were just gravel pits then

good sport if the nearby river

was slow or in spate

bikes left in nettles

would still be there on the way back

it was my paradise then

a different sort of haven

another calmer quieter

adventure playground

*

Graham R Sherwood 10/22

the weather, fighting itself

 can’t make its mind up and 

catches me out once again

I’m over-dressed 

in tepid sun,

a sudden gust and

the crisp reds golds

and browns spin 

around my boots like

a knee-deep chaos

of playground children

fluttering aimlessly,

these miscreants are

goaded on by the flapping

rattle of tree-born

branch stragglers

that chelp away 

above me in unison

enjoying my confusion

*

© Graham R Sherwood 10/22