after too much wine

we tell each other secrets

remind each other of

things that happened

in our pasts, not so much

secrets but buried treasure

we knew would one day

be excavated, held high and

thrust back into the light

we marvel at the ease of

prescient revelations

feel the warm smiles bathe

between our ears, then

bravely, winsomely frown

at memories of tragedy

and life’s near-misses

delivered in gooseflesh packages

and so to bed 

and useless reverie

where our florid multi-coloured 

psyche is once more rinsed 

to vague monochrome

and the cerebral librarian 

deftly files away the minutiae 

of our spendthrift day

*

© Graham R Sherwood 08/22

on the roadside 

ferns bowing burnished copper 

gold and wheaten, blaze

searing brilliantly

under the callous unforgiving sunshine

gutters are richly peppered with 

myriad golden needles, 

a pristine carpet regally spread 

across the narrow lanes

parched fields never shone

so brightly, shimmering, metallic

bristling in the oven of August

a grilled torpidity cloaks the land

heavy smothering choking

an invisible grip, murderous

encamped on the horizon

silently biding time

a war is brewing

horage erupts to deluge 

to take the shine

from this brilliant summer

*

© Graham R Sherwood 08/22

deep within, 

a place between head and heart

if soul exists, could it be

the painless ache, that

carefully balancing moods

emotions and desires

leads us us through our course 

the treacherous path we know as life.

Along the route gut feelings,

the peeling paintwork

of life’s experiences

cling to the soul’s armour

like lacework moths’ wings

fragility wrestling with fortitude,

bravery with equilibrium.

Soul is curator, jailor, lover, priest

our map our compass, our stars

our currency,

a portmanteau carried lightly

where victories and defeats

sit side by side.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 08/22

whispers behind hands

camouflaged wry smiles

for those who came 

in search of Avalon instead

found Little Britain 

an emigré cancer infestation 

over forty years 

walnut veneer wrinkles

bad tea and cheap wi-fi 

bridges burnt rent-a-gite 

tourist tat stall on the market 

back home every Christmas 

*

© Graham R Sherwood 08/22

Early evening horses tails

sit low in the southern sky

to the vacant eye they form

a diaphanous corps de ballet

dancing silently in perfect time

revolving as if porcelain vases

in a shop window.

As if to compete

a squadron of martins

put on their own display 

arching acrobatically 

swooping with unbelievable 

maneuverability

to sip from the pool.

The catholic call to prayer

an unwelcome clarion

invades the bliss

filling the village lanes

with a monosyllabic drone

dowl dowl dowl 

that slows and peters out

as if exhausted by the heat.

There is no other sound

the dancers have, unnoticed, 

made an exit stage right

leaving empty garments 

dishevelled strewn about

the squadron has also returned 

to base in the cool of the barn.

Urged on and tempted by

an evening breeze

herb and shrub scents

tentatively venture out, vying

with the aromas of our supper.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 08/22

1994 was our first time here

the summer blistered then too

I remember memorizing

the scant directions, the final one

turn left at the ruined piano.

Over the subsequent decade

the decrepit music box disappeared

piece by piece, eventually 

replaced by a hand painted sign 

for pizza at Chez Nelly in the village

Of course we have aged, but

the land has not,

the familiar copse, home for

the coypu and her kits

the line of massive hay rolls

the annual guessing game

sunflowers or corn 

on the palus this year

the perfect mysteriously dense 

boundary around the lawn, ideal for

hide and seek after dark

flashlights snaking, searching,

through the head high stalks

we used to joke a Japanese soldier

lived there, unaware hostilities

had ceased

For the really brave a ghost walk 

to the ruined church and back

no torches allowed.

I remember the hapless 

grass verge arsonist, and

the spade-faced crone, a Gorgon

who stared dolefully

at the kids as we slowed to drive by

both now in the cemetery with

umpteen generations of their kin.

We once brought our children here

now they in turn bring their own

to unearth the many buried memories

for their babies to rediscover

old memories as sharp as tacks

honed and passed on to the next

We are old, this vintage our last,

fierce pétanque tournaments 

that lasted the whole stay

have become usurped by

screens tablets phones et al 

but part of us will 

always be buried here

hiding in the sunflowers

or the corn

*

© Graham R Sherwood 08/22

Lying in the thin darkness

fan set to breeze, 

I play patience with Morpheus 

and lose more times than I win,

each tap and hidden knock

keeps me rooted in this world

ignoring his futile entreaties.

Shapes shift poked stubbornly

by my idle imagination 

robbers, wild animals and ghouls

in a monochrome procession

silently creep, fading in and out

a hideous beauty pageant

sponsored by yours truly.

The Perseids aren’t due yet

the cosmic free firework show

is still an agonizing week away

so, my insomnia is rooted, charmed

by the fan’s rhythmic crescendo

breaking as the chisk of surf on sand,

counting out seconds, minutes, hours

*

© Graham R Sherwood 08/22

Out early, a walk with Mabel,

a boisterous breeze

sweeps across the dry paddock

and nudges my shoulder,

urging me on, before 

dancing along the hedgerow,

each tree and bush shuddering

in turn as if passing bad news or 

sharing a secret with one another.

Mabel, lifts her nose to taste the news

but is unimpressed, and resumes

ploughing grasshoppers from 

the bleached, flattened mow.

We are on our first date,

her real beau is on holiday

so, she is playing hard to get,

I feel inferior, tentative even

as I am an amateur walker

and far too generous with her

desired wilful detours.

Once home, our eyes meet

both asking the same question,

shall we do this again?

Not at 5am I silently plead.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 07/22

The 6am air is cool on my bare shins

they say it will be very warm later.

I’m watching vapour trails, whilst

reclining on the deck, still wet 

from my early morning watering up 

damping down before the heat builds.

On high the white trails gorge and bloat

from sleek steel razor-sharp zips

into obese scaled serpents

that writhe before fragmenting 

into vaporous threadbare islands 

that sink beneath the blue cloth.

Fearing the expected heat, 

a quiet commotion of wispy

thin clouds scud across

the backdrop, smearing

the perfect blue like

poorly cleaned windowpanes

before waving the white flag

of surrender.

With my head in the clouds 

and my feet on bare earth

muesli fruit and black coffee, help

to counteract last night’s wine,

all serenaded by All Saints’

clanking call to the faithful,

reminiscent of a Tuscan hillside.

On second thoughts

I think the forecasters might

be wrong about today’s weather,

someone’s already making a mess

with the Windolene again.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 07/22

She is a messy eater

the soakaway pebbles

always strewn across the path

near the back gate, she 

shimmies under for supper

never paying or leaving a tip.

Tonight, she’d booked the early table

announcing her arrival so loudly

we thought Bea had returned

with her puppy Bella 

to cadge something for school.

The sandwich ham slipped down

easily and very noisily, manners

not foremost on the agenda

drinking similarly raucous

from a recycled dessert pot.

A couple of blue/green flies

constantly circled, riding chaotic

shotgun orbits around her head

she looked very displeased.

Mains finished, a low calorie

worm was fished from the border

to complete proceedings

no thanks, no offer of payment

definitely no tip.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 07/22