plenty of sun this morning

cajoling us into taking a walk

but it’s scarves and hats

~

lake, village, lake and back

warm in the open places

but the light wind has

a cruel tongue on it

when passing under shade

making our step quicken

~

the heron has fished early

and is nowhere to be seen

anglers neither

~

on the village green 

the violet crocuses are out

the miniature daffs late, 

sheepishly poking through

~

it’s a lovely old graveyard

we always pause here between

the stone pillars in the gateway

notionally picking our spot

worse places to finish up

~

three quarters round, and

dogwalkers are beating joggers

four to three

~

the fruits of Eunice’s shenanigans

still litter the bankside

several big fellers toppled

and diced up by the rangers

~

nearly home, an hour out

my furosemide spironolactone 

breakfast is beginning to work

and my ears are zinging.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/2022

these days I sleep

in the recovery position

just in case,

there’s much to be said

about a bed

just a three-letter word

a boat we sail in nightly

destination unknown

tears of happiness

anger, grief, all stain

the pillow just the same

where love becomes lust

becomes love once more

and from our foetal knot

pain and suffering

melt away

word muses may call

to whisper, then 

fleetingly take their leave

bed, the place to 

question ourselves time again

what have you done?

The place to breath our last

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/22

each morning, early

I taste the day

cool on my tongue,

go out feel the earth

let it touch my face,

talk to the cool air

make it my friend,

and bow low to the sun

bathe long in the rain

feel contentment

for this is my day

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/22

I hurry through the littered city streets

in search of understanding

our cosy careworn world

cast into disarray,

*

old newspaper headlines 

telling of old war stories

are blown by the winds of fate

and tangle around my shins

flapping like shredded flags

yesterday’s news 

countries, cities, wars 

from a past now all but forgotten

today’s chip paper

*

I falter I stumble I kick-out

tearing from my legs 

the unread threadbare print

once more takes flight,

to spread its plaintive word

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/22

like curious voyeurs

we stare into the flames

at the bonfire of freedom

we toss on an extra log

and watch the fire bristle

careful not to scorch our hands

the water buckets

brim nearby unnoticed

later we’ll rake the embers

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/22

expressionless mask

a cold stare and a cold heart

cold war emotions

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/22

I friend told me today, that

one of our own is dying, and

realisation seeps stealthily

through to my core in

a dark eureka moment

that punches my chest,

old people die not us

not one from our old street

and him not seventy summers,

our recent reunion still fresh,

endless memories tumble

pell-mell,

so recently re-found to be

lost again so soon,

it would be so simple

to feel old, life wasted,

God’s waiting room has

many vacant chairs,

so fancifully, we hatch

a plan, a midnight immolation

on the football centre-circle

him in his nomad’s shirt

dirty boots on top of the pyre

feet facing goal

it’s how he’d want to go

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/22

we duly cowered 

inside as instructed

save for the idiots

cavorting on the beach

some amongst the waves,

this wind blows cruel music

a screaming banshee 

undefinable, indescribable

as the taste of water

or the colour of steam,

such ferocious anger 

assigned a woman

Eunice, more befitting 

a demure librarian

wronged and revengeful,

a callous tenacity

akin to a thousand warriors

directing devastation

from her watchful chair,

so, we pay in reparations

build fences, plant trees

give thanks for leniency

and of course, mourn our dead

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/22

spotters called it the loco

a bridge we straddled

to get bathed in coal 

smoke and steam

playing chicken

whilst patiently waiting 

for the signals to change

down for south, up for north

oh! the keen anticipation,

known as 15A in those days

it was nothing special,

we’d buy a 2d ticket, 

squeeze through the fence 

behind platform 6, 

skirt the sidings trying

not to get caught

slip through the roundhouse

then cross over to the sheds,

we thought nothing of it

back then, all of us kids did it

Spud, Nelly, Josh and me,

dog-eared Ian Allen book 

tucked in our back pockets

duffle bags, Tizer, sandwich

and a chocolate yo-yo

if it was pocket-money day,

these days the bridge is no-go,

too busy, too narrow, mad traffic,

never any kids there now

and they’re building a new road

and excavating the roundhouse

razed to rubble in the ‘70s,

and then all these years later, 

a lifetime in a blink,

in the local news

Wellingborough sheds become

an archaeological dig, 

even the new relief route

is named Roundhouse Road,

alas, nowadays not a kid in sight

no steam, no grime, no grease

just the crackle and hum

of electricity in the wires

and Time-Team scratching

the earth to rediscover

my childhood

*

© Graham Sherwood 02/22

I wanted to believe in you,

after doting on your languid beauty,

such nubile poise and

sleek effortless fragility,

you are fearless

in daring balletic flight

elegant as an ice swan,

but grace became disgrace

having given yourself to us

you sold yourself to them,

now with a haunted frown

they hunt you down

and we are bereft, confused,

as the mirrors of fame splinter

leaving the stench of tainted smoke,

you fight for breath

how could they use you so?

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/22