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

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