timidly, I’m wary to draw my breath

reluctant in the bare steel chill

that catches my throat like a razor,

both nostrils raw and sore, 

sting as my breath billows, 

puthering like cooling tower steam,

it’s the first snowfall and our

fragile world typically 

grinds to a halt whining,

the dusting is early this year

climate change no doubt but

February might be tropical,

in the meantime, it’s hot soup

sourdough toast

and looking back curiously

over old words

*

Graham R Sherwood 12/22

I

to tell you the truth

I last saw her outside

The Star of the West

on Christmas Eve

looking like she was

about to drop a calf

with a young bloke that

my mother would have 

said, ‘wasn’t from around here’,

she looked all done in

round near the toilets

at the back sitting 

on the car park wall,

pretty girl!

II

well it was going off

down at The Star on

Boxing Day morning,

I shot in for a quick pint

and bumped in to Bill

Shepherd and his lads

doing the same

before the footie,

well it sounds like all hell

broke loose after closing

time Christmas eve,

that young girl and her bloke

I was telling you about

were found spark out

in one of the cubicles

holding a new-born sprog

a hell of a mess

paper towels everywhere,

they refused to have an 

ambulance called and

damned near legged it

when Daphne went to phone,

something’s not right

so Daph called Irene instead

to come and tidy her up

III

well it seems word got out

about that palaver

on Christmas Eve

because three fellas

evidently turned up asking

after her and her chap,

Jim said he thought they looked

a bit like social workers

as they were well-dressed

so, he let them into the snug

before opening time

and the couple came down

for a chat with them

Daph stayed up to look 

after the baby

Jim made out he was tidying

behind the bar in case

there was any trouble,

then Daph came down

with the little’un and

they seemed quite taken

with him

‘it’s a boy by the way’

who was as good as gold

all through it all,

they left her some stuff

for the little lad

to tide them over for a bit,

I think Jim said they were

off home soon

to face the music,

one thing is for sure

Jim and Daphne won’t

Forget this Christmas

in a hurry, Daphne’s face

has been lit up ever since

*

© Graham R Sherwood 12/22

it’s not kept up there

on the special trophy shelf 

with other myriad mementos

his tankard the war medals

silver pocket watch et al

it has no status

holds no pride of place 

swinging from a rusty hook

on the back wall of the garage

it shares a dark corner

with an old cobwebbed 

trout net

his old tenon saw

beech handle brass spine

still as good as new

honest, a workmanlike tool

made to last in those days,

it beats those other facile 

heirlooms that gather dust

hands down

its patina reflecting images

of cupboards once made

table legs carefully sawn

snug dovetails cut by eye,

but it’s when I hold it

using my left

(his would have been the right)

my fingers tucked in, 

like a child holding a parent’s hand

thumb curled over secure,

I can see his breath spill

over my shoulder

like fine sawdust and

hear his encouraging words

steady, true, take your time

this is how I stay in touch

him gone now some 

thirty years or more but

with this one old tool

I can still hold his hand

*

© Graham R Sherwood 12/22

I wrote words for you

bold words

words that bled 

the whispered words 

of lovers

oblivious to all else

happily willingly lost 

in a torrid ferment that

neither of us needed

nor wanted to understand

and yet 

here we are

a lifetime later, 

like gently maturing wine

nothing left to prove

giving of our best, and

even now

I might catch you 

standing there

face turned toward

the winter sunshine

eyes still as star-bright

as when we were both

seventeen

*

Graham R Sherwood 11/22

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