~

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

~

it’s a peculiar routine

day in, day out 

each and every day, same time

at every corner or junction

he pauses as if looking

for danger, or to consider 

a crucial decision, or

a choice he needs to make

Beatrix, our granddaughter 

eight years-old, 

somewhat concerned, 

once asked him if he was lost 

as he stared up and down the road,

he looked somewhat perplexed 

at her enquiry, remaining mute

henceforth she labelled him 

Lost Man!

an old Asian gentleman, 

I mean really very old

impeccably over-dressed  

always the same attire 

summer or winter, 

hats might change seasonally

carries a bamboo cane

never speaks when greeted

regular as clockwork

11.35, here he comes!

*

© Graham R Sherwood 01/23

as eleven-year olds we cycled

tear-arsing along, head down 

arse up for six miles 

the A6 far less perilous then,

we’d throw our bikes in the nettles 

at the bottom-end near the lake

and creep in stealthily through 

a hidden gap in the hedge,

a bottle of squash, a sandwich 

and a biscuit, the day’s victuals 

and clandestine free entry of course,

the amusements, were much better 

there than in our local park

sporting bigger slides, cooler roundabouts

taller swings, a perfect playground

where we could stay free all day,

half a century has slipped by and 

we’re doing it again minus bikes

no longer adventurous little boys, 

now a self-titled bunch of old chums

the Old Grey Walkers, 

five-hundred years-worth of mischief

on a voyage of re-discovery,

rekindling old school friendships, 

revisiting old haunts to warm old hearts, 

a veritable “Cardiac Camino’, 

most of which are already well-medicated,

Mike bravely leading the way

with his new pacemaker, 

the rest of us stopping inquisitively 

to point out old familiar sights 

and surreptitiously catch our breath

*

(Wicksteed Park revisited)

© Graham R Sherwood 01/23

~

pearly brittle early winter light

a lone red kite wheels high 

an elegant drone 

scanning for carrion

in pastel clean air,

the moon, late to bed

is keeping watch, reclining 

ungainly on its back

like a pallid broken seesaw,

frosted roof tiles glare

silver-shine grey above the

schoolchildren who slide and tap-dance 

stamping on frozen puddles

that fracture, splintering

with dull bone-jarring cracks,

nearby, grandparents chaperoning 

their errant charges 

comically totter like penguins

in fear of a fall

*

© Graham R Sherwood 01/23

~

a grim day, 

all shades brown

the sky copper dull,

our stream in spate

colour of milked tea, sepia 

monochrome dour

an old heron, 

one of three territorially spaced

still, socially distanced, 

stands grumbling on black

flat matted rushes, bedraggled 

his wispy Fu-Manchu beard

droopily stirring the tea,

it is nose-stinging bitter but

we pretend brave

hop-scotching path puddles

that were inundated yesterday,

trolling over the precarious bridge 

whose planks wheeze like

Long John Silver,

I see the flash

you sadly not,

two seconds and gone,

morning’s only colour

it’s must be two years 

at least since you 

were the lucky one

I remember it still

*

© Graham R Sherwood 01/23

~

feeling chilled, relaxed, 

kicking back

(a horrible expression)

a glass of red

a new life in the country, 

a new start

my guard is down, I’m easy meat

perhaps a garden makeover

a stretch, a yawn, 

life is good,

then the broken emaciated donkey 

with crooked calloused hooves 

burdened with huge stones 

struggles across the screen,

now an undernourished 

African child with flies 

infesting his eyes, 

his sister drinks filthy water

she fetched from three miles away

and like a jack-in-the-box 

my mood shifts, kick-arsed from

Summer Holiday to Hammer Horror

in a two-minute, 

white-knuckle guilt trip,

following that cloudburst

sunshine returns

take a cruise, 

perhaps a new hearing-aid

or some chap helping me

withdraw equity from my home

help my children out in these

straightened times

there’s certainly a lot of things

for me to think about.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 01/23

~

you selected paper boats 

and untried Icarus wings

for a way to live your life,

I wring my hands but marvel

at the milestones you pass,

as my vigour wanes, cautiously

I make ready to pass on the life-flame 

that lit my path,

warmed my hearth,

 that chased away dark silhouettes 

and unwelcome shadows

all the while I worry

is your paper strong 

and will the sunshine

be too hot tomorrow?

*

© Graham R Sherwood 01/23