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

Six letters, all different

none the same, just six letters.

We covet change, whether 

four pennies in our pocket

or some personal upheaval.

We change plans, change trains

change our minds 

have a change of heart 

or change our view.

Change may make things

better, but we have no way 

of knowing when we change

Perhaps we should leave things 

the same

just for a change.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 07/22

There is beauty in birdsong

a chaos of thrilling notes

such a pleasing cacophony

of unchivalrous voices

each overplaying the other.

This is no angelic choral

it is a conversation, where

each voice must be heard

from the unseen clicking wren

to the squabbling jealous magpie

that heckles the tuneful blackbird.

In this jollity there is meaning,

messages, demands and truths

there is beauty in birdsong

so listen to the words.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 06/22

We arrived early, Laugharne was still asleep.

Having not had breakfast, with both of us famished

we found a café with no proper menu and

I ordered a plate of rarebit, the real stuff,

to impress my Welsh son-in-law

and sent him photographic proof.

After food, sated, we skirted the castle ruins

and strolled the tide path to the boathouse

foolishly taking the vertiginous steps

and not the scenic village route

which would have been much easier.

With a sweep of superlative syllables

the Tâf estuary deftly carried our breath away

on a broadly curved brushstroke of an ebb tide.

I mistook a sea otter for a seal, but

Anna put me right with better eyes

as transfixed, we watched it flail

a broken kelp stalk like a cudgel, 

making elaborate dives and swirls, 

breaking cover like a large black button,

its brief flourishes an unexpected treat.

The morning heat had already roasted

the timbers of Dylan’s writing shed,

I peered through its pane like an urchin

sent in search of an errant father

down the pub, finding nothing

more than his discarded jacket 

haphazardly robing an empty chair.

Before leaving I bought a well-carved owl 

and a tiny wooden mouse,

hoping it would go down well with Bea

as our gift for stealing away for a few days.

Over iced cream, we listened

to the opening stanzas of Under Milk Wood

from a talking book in the car,

Burton’s sonorous tone spreading rich as honey.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 06/22

Scanning hulls, I notice the 

boats all have evocative names,

they’re all someone’s babies

after all, many painted blue to grace

the bathwater waves.

They nestle, neatly berthed,

tightly tucked as orphans 

in a dormitory, some

seem to wait in vain

for their owners’ return, 

doze cheek by jowl, as

the harbour’s gentle swell

jostles them comfortably 

awake.

 Dawn unveils a new day 

with the musical clinks

and taps of ropes on rigging,

a lively uplifting overture

and perhaps, once again 

the anticipation of new voyages.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 06/22

Now there’s nothing left to do,

flags are furled

bunting neatly folded

boxed and put away.

Streets lie empty 

barriers stacked roads swept 

and vehicles claim 

closed roads once more.

 An eerie quietude

falls across the land

breath is held, fingers tap

bets are laid, choices cast.

Somewhere an old lady sits alone 

with thoughts of duty, loyalty

devotion, service, 

wondering where did all this begin

the whys, the whens

and how if ever will it end.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 06/22

I used to say never change a word

but it’s done, pored over within 

an inch of being thrown on the fire.

It lives, has a name and now needs 

the nourishment of publication,

to go out in the world to breathe.

I know forever forward, 

like the concern for a child

I will worry about this fragile thing

*

© Graham R Sherwood 06/22