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

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