I remember the sea

sniffing the salty mineral tang

fearful of the deafening cacophony

in those last few years

before they closed the coast,

the ocean having offered up its dead

the beaches were awash, a nauseous abattoir.

I once grew vegetables in my garden

fruit too, flowers, shrubs

years before the cinders came,

and I remember the birds

cats and dogs too, all gone

and beloved Rosie.

I never go outside 

the sun scorches

even the rain burns the skin 

on the darker days,

and oxygen ran out last week

deliveries late again

I do hope we get water today

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/21

did every colour of decay

ever look better?

the path still wet

with last night’s splash, and

in the gutter, drifts of 

red-gold leaf fall

a mat of sodden confetti,

but it’s bright and crisp today

and I’m quick to forgive

the shortcomings of the season.

my thin blood feels sluggish

forcing me to take my time

starting out up the hill,

I feel like an old machine 

coughing and hawking, before

shuddering into life then running smoothly,

I realise I should have buttoned my coat

before leaving and now struggle

comically to align the holes to the buttons 

casting a strange choreography.

I pass and nod a hello, 

to a couple of old fellows, who 

walk bent over as if praying,

noticing their comfortable

velcro fastened shoes,

no doubt a recent purchase 

from a weekend newspaper 

advertisement.

I pity their infirmity

and selfishly hope for better

for myself, but can’t help but think

I meant to do something today,

something important

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/21

sanctified, ghoulish, hallowed tide

saints and spectres share the day,

on gilded statuary cobwebs shiver

lofty arches are cold witness to

a threadbare church and ragged peasants

who mask their souls in dowdy-white

each begging alms to feed the living

awaiting ghosts this hallowed tide

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/21

(For Greta and David)

wars are easy, simple,

recognise the enemy

understand it and work out

how to vanquish it

before it crushes you,

identify its vital needs

starve it, choke it, 

bleed it, kill it,

and you will become

the victor, you see

wars are easy, simple,

just recognise the enemy

especially if the enemy

is you.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/21

what’s home

a house, a birthplace?

no, home is in your bones

your marrow and your blood

it’s safe and secure,

an unstoppable sigh

of the yearn to return,

a perceptible heart-tug

from the regret of leaving,

a final resting place

one’s never left

that’s home.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 10/21

I remember how

we mourned our parents as 

many before us had done,

we became strong, independent,

responsible, brave

became the new elders of our own tribes,

without warning we three

become two,bereft

forced to mourn once more,

we reminisce from the darkest place

failing to see the candle’s light,

the deathly wound gapes open

and will be slow to heel,

once more the familial tontine

is dusted down, scratched out and

re-written on this blue/black ink of a day

and draws closer to its end

*

Graham R Sherwood 10/21

the screen illuminates

I see who’s calling

and immediately know

something is wrong

he never phones, always her

so, something is definitely wrong

four words seep from the ether

and hang in the air, like Tantalus

others quickly expire

and meekly fade to white noise

sister, collapse, hospital, heart

something must be seriously wrong,

he is old and cannot handle this

his words babble and gurgle 

a bathtub emptying too quickly

shopping, pain, paramedics, aorta, urgent,

a succinct telegram of despair,

and like expectant fathers, we

rush to the waiting room, 

we sit and wait and wait and wait and wait

something surely must be wrong

*

© Graham R Sherwood 10/21

the cat leaps out the bag

as I am delivered like a parcel

to my secret family birthday lunch,

the car park gives the game away

the Volvo, the Jaguar, the Duster

and the rice-burner, whose name 

I can never pronounce correctly

I spot them huddled in the bar

all gathered before me

waiting in anticipation

as if for my hearse,

rarely do all one’s fiends meet, and

acquaintances are vigorously renewed,

this time is precious, so 

must not be squandered,

I lamely joke that we’re a board meeting

as seats are taken and food arrives,

then the stories begin and I listen

overhearing everybody’s chatter,

of ageing parents about to die

past holidays recollected and relished

marriages both past or anticipated

each cabal a buzzing hive of news

and I am swiftly, gladly replaced

as the centre of attention,

then I carefully scan the room

and dust-off my own stories

remembering past escapades

meetings milestones tragedies

of all this gathered throng

now immersed in infinite recall

leaving me feeling like an

contented ethereal presence

at my own memorial

*

© Graham R Sherwood 16/10/21

against the odds

I’ve made it to seventy, 

the proverbial three score-and-ten

it was old once, not anymore

it’s the new fifty I’m told

but why not thirty? only joking,

Anna says I’ve got to change

not give up on life like my mother

‘though she made it to eighty-four,

so I’ve bought a guitar

a left-handed Martin Dreadnought

all the way from Boise, Idaho

never had a proper ‘leftie’,

had to hold a ‘rightie’ upside down

I might grow a beard too

and buy a denim shirt

for old time sake

perhaps walk the Camino

try and find myself,

I don’t think I bother

chasing after younger women

surely after fifty years

she won’t get rid of me now,

a friend told me to 

‘embrace disgrace’

another advised me to

‘mind how you go

and go with your mind’

hopefully, I won’t embarrass 

the family too much

after all

I’ve lived the seventies once

how hard can it be 

a second time around?

*

© Graham R Sherwood 10/21

do not fear ghosts

they are the children of your psyche

you should nourish them, even if reluctantly

but never try to abandon them,

some remain young, childish, wilful

others are patient and will nurture you

like parents when you are troubled

angry ghosts cannot resist a fight

and will rise to challenge you

when you would gladly confront others

so do not fear ghosts

they are the children of your psyche

bid them welcome

to sit at your table

*

© Graham R Sherwood 10/21