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

the seasons cool

and we quickly put on clothes

unwilling to forsake the 

fading freedoms of the summer

and subtle warming musks of autumn,

with swifts and swallows gone

our faces wince as we submit sheepishly  

to the furrowed scowl of winter

brittle as newly frosted plough

our languorous body stretches

tighten to knotted shudders

as we turn our backs on

the death throes of another year,

a votive candle of optimism

flickering weakly in bitter 

winds of change,

we turn three coins in our pocket

and place our bets with fickle

lady luck, the blind avarice 

of better fortune flaring in our eyes 

*

© Graham R Sherwood 12/21

were I to die

look not upon my face

prepare no coffin flowers hymns

no eulogies nor sad refrains

pray remember the flame

that scorched our hearts

the thrill of lightening

that shocked our limbs

the gripping ache, when

forced to be apart,

we loved unconditionally

with neither choice nor reserve,

were I to die

look not upon my face,

close your eyes

feel happy

© Graham R Sherwood 12/21

6am, a rude awakening,

next door’s online groceries

at 6am, on a Sunday!

9am I’m putting the Christmas lights up

It’s 2c outside, fingers numb

keep dropping the bloody gutter hangers

11am I try to deliver secret Santas

for our social, got lost

in a new building development

postcode not recognised by satnav

12am now regretting asking

for a salad for my lunch

the iceberg lettuce really was!

3pm settled down to watch

a Christmas film, but

can’t work out how to

switch off the sub-titles

bollocks!

5pm him next door comes around

to ask if our Covid has cleared up,

strangely, says that he’s just

waiting to get it, bonkers!

tells me that this afternoon

he’d opened the inflatable Santa

that he bought from Amazon in July,

turns out it’s just a 4ft long blow-up

dachshund with a Father Christmas hat on,

I told him straight

advice from RSPCA is never, ever

buy a dog for Christmas!

*

© Graham R Sherwood 12/21

barely two hours on

and she is up again

before midnight,

jealously climbing between us

and without a word, returns

to the arms of Morpheus

I blink and hear her whisper

Papa! what time is it?

4.15am beams apologetically

to meet my reluctant stare

and after parrying two more

whispered rapiers 

we rise

sitting in silence at the kitchen table,

biscuits and milk for her

black coffee and The Oldie for me, 

we await daylight,

later that evening, around seven

our charge dispatched

back to her parents,

whole sentences fade to blank

from our discussion

about the day, about her, about us

and so we surrender to sleep

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/21

once on the common

she bounds off to get a head start

before her favourite ball

tumbles out of the sky

at the underpass she sits patiently

in the gold medal place

atop the three-step concrete podium

once used for dismounting a horse

successfully begging a treat

paw aloft

after half-heartedly showing 

the rabbits who’s boss in the meadow

she’s first up the metal railway bridge

twenty-seven up twenty-seven down

we’ve no grandchildren today

but we still force a reluctant wave

from the driver of an inter-city

as it gathers speed

the blackberries are over

the sloes just coming

and we take note

we’re careful over the mossy planks

the stream’s up, a blue/grey 

torrent from the clay

after yesterday’s downpour

snatching a silent apple break 

and a cold drink in the church yard

she’s busy sniffing the stones

as if counting them

doubling back for any she missed

first time around

no kingfisher again today

to tell the truth

we’ve only seen it twice

but still hope

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/2021

In the shadow of Clochemerle

ruby vine fruits newly shorn,

burning sarments smoke signal

that vintage is over, is safely home,

the vendangeurs have left

for warmer southern climes

falling Gamay leaves carpet

the burnished Cote de Puy

air is cooling, prescient,

we taste the early paradis

and wait, impatient for

the first young purple wine,

there is no hurrying in the chais

just excited anticipation

‘il arrive’

© Graham R Sherwood 11/2021