~

is holding one’s breath

when listening for something

typical practice

*

© Graham R Sherwood 01/23

Inspired by ‘On the nature of daylight’

by Max Richter

~

earth yawns into morning

night air thins to nought

an imperceptible stirring, 

no movement more a sense

of changing shape and form

to greet emerging light,

colours blossom, hues fill out

blushing with fresh warmth

conjuring the new day’s 

complexion to settle

to declare itself,

its favoured humour rebalanced

before we rise

*

© Graham R Sherwood 01/23

an undefinable sound

untuned radio, white noise

dumbing tinnitus in the darkness,

the near silent mechanism 

of beleaguered thought

complex but simple, as

delicate as catching a bubble

ideas exist for merely a second

then vanish fleetingly, buried

within the amnesia of dreams,

*

© Graham R Sherwood 01/23

I left home at eighteen never to return, 
nothing amiss, it was just time to go,
all the reasons were there
freedom work love money,
looking back I realise that 
even though no words were spoken, 
or advice given, nor requested,
my parents must have had the opinion 
that I knew it all, 
although I never claimed to,
it was 1970
I was leaving for a world
in which they had never lived
a brave new alien world,
a place with its own language
where without knowing, without
fault on their part, they had
become estranged, subconsciously
without remorse without harm,
some fifty years later
my own children having set sail
without me saying a word
I have become a mute mourner
benignly standing watch 
as their own, my grandchildren 
search for wood and nails
to build their boats

*

© Graham R Sherwood 01/23

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