I knew he was dead

the frantic call, some

twenty minutes before

I started my journey

planted that seed, which

grew, fertile in thought soup,

I had not stared death full

in the face before

so, I weighed the likelihood

of my novice reaction

as the landscape scrolled

by unnoticed,

he looked peaceful 

unsmiling, not serene

but somehow, relieved

and at the same time

embarrassed at the fuss 

he was causing

by his sudden departure,

I didn’t kiss him at first, I

merely slid my hands under 

the sheet searching to cup his hand,

then something strange,

my finger stroked his wristwatch

still working, still pulsing

unaware of its new obsolescence,

time gently keeping time

for no-one.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/22

as we set off to walk home, 

I asked her to hold my hand,

after a short search I found her fingers

nestled in the sleeve of her winter coat,

she asked why I wanted to hold her hand

because when you’re older, I said

you won’t want to hold my hand anymore,

but I’ll always hold your hand Papa

she said solemnly,

well, your mum used to

hold my hand when

she was my little girl

but she doesn’t anymore

she holds your daddy’s hand instead,

well I’ll always hold your hand 

even when I’m twenty-one

she said emphatically,

so, I gently squeezed hers, saying

I’ll always hold your hand Bea,

wherever you are, however old,

even when you cannot see me anymore

I’ll always hold your hand

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/22

a chaotic angular skyscape

silhouettes the threadbare watercolour wash

of charcoal grey, that pales and

rinses to a thin milk blue

the colour of cold skin,

across the silent city

a fresh newly-minted dawn

nudges rich salmon-pink streaks

skyward in celebration

of my first yawn of the day,

I am not ready for this splendour

and stand at my window, disbelief

hanging guiltily from my open mouth,

I heed the shepherd’s warning, and stumble

to my ablutions, my feet like ice

bristling on the tiled floor,

water abruptly slaps me awake

and I submit, the rubicon crossed

the Tuesday bugle calls, awake!

absentmindedly I see the foolish pigeon

before I hear the sickening thud

its brief voyeurism at the window

its tumble into the pruned rose bed

its final blank wide-eyed corpse

tiny breast feathers shiver

an apologetic Mexican wave

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/22

we shake hands to take our leave

in a clumsy round-robin

then hurriedly search for keys 

to make our way home 

for teatime as instructed

as we did when children,

we once lived nearby 

adjacent streets, all the same houses

but now different towns

in our own homes,

this year full of 70th birthdays

each of us chalking-off another

just like our schooldays,

but these meetings, these reunions

are special, precious, 

not one of us knowing how many remain,

we have aged and have nothing left to prove

life’s gifts and challenges of no import

our paths have differed 

as has our luck, money, lovers, 

but we have all arrived here

in the twilight to share our stories

*

© Graham R Sherwood 01/22

I flit back there occasionally,

like a moth to a flame 

in chaotic unplanned visits 

with scant regularity,

everywhere looks older, crumbling 

unsteady, as are the people I once knew

their youth once fresh, 

now like the milk I once delivered 

as a lad, turned sour,

the streets too seem narrower, 

shorter, dirtier, choked 

by poorly parked cars

half on, half off the kerb,

sadly there’s no longer the smells either 

of leather, paraffin, bonfires, fags, faggots

that bookended my childhood,

but something does remain, intact

a friendly wistful cynicism,

a self-mocking realism

that keeps you in your place

but overall, the look

the look that’s never left me

the look that tells others

this is where I came from.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 01/22

a lightly frosted grape-skin bloom

sits powdery silver on the grass,

peckish fieldfare, driven off the fens

by today’s rapier chill

stand muttering as old fellows

waiting for the pub,

reluctantly the garage door squeals

its rusty winter complaint

and emits a draughty shudder 

as I roll it back,

it’s time to wake the drowsy sloes

gin-slumbering on the darkest shelf

stow Christmas baubles for another year

clean old tools, sort sundry nuts and bolts

but Jack Frost’s needling pinch

swiftly chokes my departing zeal, and

turning wistfully, with one last apologetic glance

I beat retreat until the Spring

with books, red wine and roaring fires 

*

© Graham R Sherwood 01/22

it’s the timbre I recognise first,

splashing chords, fat raindrops 

slapping cold piano key flagstones

a sudden violent musical storm 

black and white, a sonata

a foment drenching my ears

drowning my senses

I can only stand and look

vacantly transfixed, 

a hypnotized audience of one

deciphering the heavy liquid notes

sodden, helpless, shivering

as others run in futile panic

I can only stand and look

*

© Graham R Sherwood 01/22

the fickle wavering tinnitus of the dark

envelops me in a bristling fog

the sounds of your irascible father

impatiently tuning his old wireless

come to mind

under the nights’ sombre eclipse

the childrens’ discarded anticipation

lies punctured and strewn across the floor

the cold cuts of yesterday’s wonder

the season expects me to prolong festivities 

but these are sallow regretful days

and I play out the benign charades

of this year’s flickering wick

in bored anticipation

my gift-wrapped hopes wait

to be recycled in resolutions

*

Graham R Sherwood 12/21

blue cup orange tongue

the true magic of Christmas

a lone candle flame

*

© Graham R Sherwood 12/21

my gods and ghosts are acquainted

walking side by side, hand in hand in accord,

they wear familiar clothes and hold common cause 

to weigh the balance of my life’s account,

they will be my final executors, dispersing bone and ash

across my homeland and treasured places,

a man should never meet his gods or ghosts

for they transcend his base mortality

know his future, his chances, his failures 

yet to come

when a man senses his gods and ghosts

are near he should be mindful,

something is sure to happen

*

© Graham R Sherwood 12/21