~

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

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