at each minute 

on the minute

guttural, mute and sombre, 

the great bell beckons 

as a distant muffled cannon

measures out the crump of boots

a clink of sword, 

a harness rattle

unscripted shy applause

breaks like pass the parcel 

a sound somehow out of place,

brass fugues bellow softly 

sober tunes well-rehearsed

baptise each bowed head

each damp downcast eye

*

© Graham R Sherwood 09/22

Joan could have died a few weeks ago

congestive heart failure

ninety-four soon, it looked like game over

for a week or two.

We saw her again yesterday, 

she damned near damped her diamond

giggling about crabs (not hers)

don’t laugh, you had to be there.

I said to Anna, 

‘do you know, if she went tonight

you couldn’t be sad could you

her laughing like that this afternoon”.

We chuckled about it all the way home,

and then the bombshell!

a bit like with Joan, 

we never saw it coming

not exactly unexpected but

still a shock when it happened

so we just sat, watched and listened

as the gentle sound of our history

 turned over yet another page.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 09/22

a raw-eyed wet sun 

bleeds like a sore, an angry wound

splashing the mottled

understorey through a ride of birks

slim silver-skinned trunks 

stand sentry, on fire, like knifes,

young ferns lick around the

 splitting bark as flames do kindling,

along this molten path, the 

fluidity of lengthening shadows

tarnishes the golden leafy path,

we stare backward, peer forward

as litter wraiths rising up 

fascinate our wary eyes,

a funereal chill is portent

there is change in the air

and old becomes new

there is news abroad

with not a word spoken

*

© Graham R Sherwood 09/22

it’s our home

our sanctuary after all, but

with curious ambivalence

we watch her slowly hurt,

hear Gaia take a breath 

a vital gasp as if injured,

and feigning curious surprise

we float in the vacuum,

look for reasons, villains, blame, 

whether it be death throe 

or re-awakening

we count on our fingers

and await the great exhale

*

© Graham R Sherwood 09/22

It’s time, 

a premature colour shift

tells me so, the air is cooler too

and rain threatens.

I feel I owe it to the plants

to unravel their tortuous work

with a care and reverence

my father once employed,

in grateful thanks

for yet another freely given

bounteous harvest.

I disentangle taut brown tendrils

discover the last few hidden 

crisply bronzed elderly pods 

that evaded earlier capture.

With care a skeleton is

revealed, bamboo rods

bent like ribs submit

grudgingly but with pride.

It’s over, an exhumation 

in truth a burial in reverse,

fresh dug earth

hidden by summer’s 

verdant veil, now lies

barren exhausted 

awaiting renewal.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 09/22

It’s a quasi-religious ritual, 

a September ceremonial if you will,

at first touch we are baptised

with nature’s ink.

Unheralded we come to wrestle 

the barbed resolute defenders 

of these cephalic black fae orbs.

This stolid sweet Lammas fruit

eaten more in sorrow, 

than remorse, we smear thick

juice on maidens’ bellies 

and give praise for those who follow

*

© Graham R Sherwood 09/22

I keep a small book

very close to me, it’s

covered in brown parcel paper

like an old school book

untitled, no graffiti, no scrawl

no innocent declarations

of endless love,

it keeps me sane

reminds me what’s

important, what’s real

in these God-forsaken

nervous days,

I can open any page

and feel renewed, clearer

to lead a simpler life.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 08/22

this year

we fell in love

with the summer, 

with torrid early blazing June,

an urgent lover with whom

we swam, we ate, we drank

we fucked, we slept,

unsated and carefree

under the brilliant sun

through the bronzed nakedness 

of July, we submitted 

to the beguiling svengali, 

that mesmeric muse

of hypnotic warmth

that daily stroked our 

expectant skin,

but our ardour cooled

in August we tired, we cast

our heart and minds elsewhere

put on thin clothes

and went our separate ways

our summer of love over

*

© Graham R Sherwood 08/22

If I should lose you

and the others too

as I slip into the fog

don’t give up the search

for me,

call my name

tell me where you are

I will somehow

find my way home

*

© Graham R Sherwood 08/22

(During a recent holiday in France Profonde, I stumbled upon a national crisis).

the epiciere is empty

local market too

angst on each street corner

people haven’t got a clue

dejeuners are disrupted

gastronomy very hard

la source of this dilemma 

global shortage of moutarde!

here, moutarde is part of everything 

loved by toute le monde

of saucisse steaks and sauces

French are incroyablement fond

rationing is ‘en force’ today

one jar only each personne

stockpiling is pas necessaire 

mal-eleve, just not done

it seems a drought in Canada

and war in far Ukraine

as well as global warming

has ‘ratatine’ le grain

there’s no stock of the Amora 

not a whiff of Poupon-Grey

Colman’s is ‘en-rupture’

all shelves are clear as day

now vinaigrettes are tasteless

so too insipide mayonnaise

I’ve tried to give them Worcestershire sauce

to soulager ce malaise

the French are getting steamed up

they even have some prose

“la moutarde me monte au nez,”

which means 

the mustard rises in my nose”

having scoured the supermarche 

no moutarde have I seen

a cancel culture condiment 

of which the French are very keen

the Cordon Bleus are cracking up

aficionados are bereft 

in this Dijonnais dilemma

zut alors there’s nothing left 

so I’m heading back to Blighty

to make a new moutarde 

a brand new taste sensation

I hope it’s not en-retard 

there’ll be nothing really like it

a nouveau moutarde noir

made of licorice and marmite

dilemma au revoir!!!

*

© Graham R Sherwood Jul/Aug 2022