the girl in the playground

who first held my heart

ran like an antelope

sang chords like a harp,

the smell of burnt toast

clung deep on her clothes

and Quink ink tattoo stains 

blotted her nose,

it’s her green flashing eyes

I can never forget

when, too young for such feelings

we finally met

I had to run hard to catch

this most beautiful fawn

leaving her suitors

bereft and forlorn

but my whole world crumbled

I half-expected it would

as no boy could move her

like singing songs could

and a lifetime later

I can still hear her voice

now the playground stands empty

I wasn’t her choice.

*

Graham R Sherwood 04/22

not buried in these rusted stones

or the muffled clang

of the bottom school bell

not amongst the conker trees

the mist in the grove, 

or the burning stubble on Thrapston Rd

not the sights and sounds of carnival

nor the vinegar on fish and chips

new shoe leather or paraffin 

not written in the names of pets long-gone

or familiar names, 

on High St shops

my lost Camino lies right here

hidden in plain sight beneath my feet

camouflaged in the faces

of weathered friends

local words and memories

in humour, ribbing

and remember whens

this way I’ve sought

has been waiting here

has never wavered, is loyal, proud

and so, we walk and talk

and walk some more

spending whatever time remains

just glad that in life’s labyrinth

we all of us

found ‘our way’ back here

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/2022

when I consider this place

a telling realization dawns,

perhaps what I’m really looking for 

isn’t set deep in the buildings here after all,

of course, the old ones, the really

old ironstone local landmarks

church, obelisk, hall, school, the inn, 

do breathe their own imposing presence,

sharing an under-sung self-satisfied smirk

like knowing pensioners, who no longer 

need to earn their living,

having done their time, clocked-off

still standing, confidently resolute,

still a living part of this place,

as I walk, I pat their warm worn stones in the

way I stroked the back of my grandfather’s hand

with a love, a respect, a given loyalty

each tap gently counting-out my blessings 

with no need for extravagant embraces,

no, it’s not the buildings but the faces,

the voices, the particular dialect that 

once defined one village from another

none more than two miles apart,

I see old eyes briefly brighten sharply

like blown embers, rekindling a hearth

memories flicker, chuckles become flames

and for that one hour we are young again.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/22

a beautiful girl, 

long slim fingers, 

strokes a precious Stradivari,

patina polished maple

a touch like mist on water,

exquisite lilting notes

sublimely float, take flight

then slowly fade

as they surely must

she is compelled to sway,

as a reed in a stream

sensuous, erotic, beguiled

by the purity of sound

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/22

it’s more of a tap 

than a tick,

somewhere, in the back of my throat,

no

it’s more in my neck

a constant reminder,

both good and bad,

good 

because it’s a regular rhythm

bad, because it signifies

patched up damaged goods,

I know it sounds ungrateful

hell no!

I know I’m very lucky,

but it’s always there

it always will be

like Captain Hook’s crocodile

but it’s more of a tap

than a tick

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/22

for a path to exist, first 

there must be a footprint

to create the way

or there is no path, 

the birth of a path

is a gift to others,

those with curious feet

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/22

the acrid stench of this war

invades my nostrils,

devastating pictures

painted by the news

overwhelm my senses,

my face, impregnated by disbelief

aches with futile empathy,

my handwringing angst and

bold words of allegiance

would not clothe a skeleton

this war is the devil’s work

and finds my faith wanting 

I am ashamed

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/22

warm March sunshine 

is a welcome stranger

and deftly strokes our faces, 

as we idle down the lanes,

~

your light touch on my sleeve 

alerts me to stand still

a young sparrow hawk is

perched sentry-style on the 

church wall, wary, cautious,

talons buried deep in the lichen

~

we freeze like cold statuary 

of the nearby graveyard 

in the hope this unexpected

audience will perhaps endure,

~

but all spells eventually break

and our hypnosis is shattered

by the raucous clang

announcing the Eucharist

~

instinctively wings flex 

revealing his hidden prize

a tiny breakfast shrew

hauled easily skyward

~

as parishoners arrive piecemeal

we follow his flight disappearing

behind the sombre yews

silhouetted against the blue

still gaping our appreciation

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/22

After tea and ‘Songs of Praise’ 

early on Sunday evenings, 

weather permitting 

we’d all walk back to Irthlingborough,

~

if auntie Margaret and uncle Len 

had been to visit, we’d walk them home 

across Patterson’s fields 

two and a half miles, cross-country

and then get the bus back home,

~

it was a decent jaunt, 

over spring bridge, past the bomb craters 

rich with newts kids caught in jars,

up to Cherry Hall Farm, 

it’s shiny red Dutch barn

a half-way beacon for miles around,

skirt the quarries of the Headvale Mine,

then all downhill the rest of the way

with the bus often waiting for us 

at the Queen Eleanor cross

~

I remember the warm summer air, 

blossom in the orchard

sweet wheat field aromas 

and curious stationary sheep, 

father always trying to frightening us

worriedly on the look-out for a bull

~

we’d always meet other people

coming the other way, same journey backwards,

grown-ups I didn’t know but my parents did, 

a chance for mums to gossip and dads to light-up fags

~

on the bus back, hopefully

a green United Counties double-decker, 

if I was lucky and the conductor knew my dad

he’d give me the near-spent 

rolls of bus tickets to take home,

a highly-prized treat

for when I played buses

on mum’s parlour chairs

lined up in the hall 

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/22

I’m at that age, 

where nothing surprises me

~

another friend has died

quietly, at home as they say

killed by a fucking parrot

~

I’m serious twenty years 

inhaling preened dander,

he might as well have been

smoking asbestos fags, 

same outcome lungs knackered

~

who’s the bloody bird going to

talk to now?

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/2022