like lemmings, they tumble forward

crazedly in blind panic,

desperation fuelling knotted-string muscles

this is an evacuation, there is no decorum here

men and young boys leave first,

babies unaware, are passed hand-to-hand

as at a family celebration

where everyone wants a hold,

and for what?

father forgive them

they know not what they do.

*

© Graham Sherwood 08/21

their land is not your land

you have no right,

if there is to be a battle

so be it, stand back

let the brutality begin,

it cannot be your fight

you do not belong in it,

the people will decide who

will win their hearts and minds,

if weak, they will be controlled

before slowly, steadfastly

they will discover a strength

their land is not your land

you have no place within it.

*

© Graham Sherwood 08/21

in those teenage years

we slept, unconsciously entwined

like tangled laundry

sated with desire bleached love

conjoined spent serpents

having eaten each other,

in those teenage years

we were thoughtless, oblivious 

to any impossibilities

nothing could sate us, we lived

we ate, we danced, we fucked

each day identical 

without the need of a name,

in those teenage years

I wrote poems for you

I have them still

torrid, emphatic treatises

of undying love, and

in the quiet of the dark,

I imagine I see you

and read the words once again

*

© Graham Sherwood 08/21

woken again by words, lyrics

the rhythm of a vowel-less heartbeat,

the score of life’s music

a muffled metronome

swaying in one’s breast,

a scribbled line of troubled water

the pitch and swell sine wave

silently breaking shore,

a finger-drumming impatience

alters the beat, recording

the helter-skelter of each day

as the music changes its song

*

© Graham Sherwood 08/21

I watched the land burn

fire dripping from the tumult overhead

I ran and ran,

my fear turned to curiosity

edging closer

my skin warmed and dried,

fire at first precious, then valuable, 

became traded, the world warmed 

and it was good,

now I watch the land burn

from foolish animosity and folly

and with renewed fear I run.

*

© Graham Sherwood 08/21

it seems every sort of cloud

gently ambles by, a veritable cloud catalogue

slowly, like a cartoon scenery backdrop

passing our saucer-like eyes,

we’re high on the downs,

marvelling at an incredible vista

eating lunch on Ted and Doreen’s bench

looking down like gods on mere mortals

in the Lilliputian villages below us,

here the day feels like a week

a time-stretch, easy, where

silver gliders glint and then disappear

like paper airplane birds

invisibly scratching the big blue

wheeling in giant condor circles,

we eat languorously

our cheese and ham sandwiches

have never tasted so good

*

© Graham Sherwood 08/21

5.30am until 7am

Monday to Friday before school,

up at 4am on Sundays 

finished by lunchtime,

If you drop and break anything

clean it up and never lie to me,

such a scant induction as a

sixteen-year old village milk boy

in 1967, the Summer of Love,

the hippy anthem ‘ San Francisco’

scrolling through my head,

in the rain, I wore a floor-length cape

always bare forearms

in the snow I could hear George

trudging to work three streets away

crunching the freshly fallen powder,

first tea stop was at the boss’s house

always radio 3 on low and the smell of

coffee and dog hair, mingling

with Mozart,

homogenized silver top, 

Channel Island gold top

and sterilized red crown cap, daily

butter and cream only at the weekend,

we were always half done

by the time the Co-op float started,

always guaranteed a scowl,

I had strong throwers’ arms

the metal carriers held ten pints each,

one in each hand

I was paid in cash, always in half-crowns

the fittest I’ve ever been.

*

© Graham Sherwood 08/21

10 years old

we’d be out all day

in that long hot summer,

each cradling a bottle of spruce 

and a cheese and apple sandwich 

wrapped in a waxed bread wrapper,

either to the swing bridge or 

the vertiginous drop under devil’s tooth

if we were feeling brave,

otherwise it was climbing trees

the whole gang, urchin gibbons

just larking about,

hiding in Patterson’s wheat

or tickling newts, near cherry hall

only us lads, no girls allowed

unless we played kiss chase

in Hawthorne Rd,

the days were long but all too short

and then we went our separate ways

divided by something called the 11-plus.

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/21

for everything there’s a name

people, places, paraphernalia

it seems the whole world is labelled,

but there is joy in discovering a new place

experiencing its flavour, feeling its anonymity 

before one is told its name, its history, 

its sense of place, reasons and flaws.

strangers too can be intriguing

especially if they remain nameless,

perhaps on a shared journey,

in a museum, a gallery

where opinions can be shared and

contrariness shown without prejudice

as may admiration or contention.

old implements, tools and machinery

without names are beguiling

one fascinates over their original use

durability and antique style

they do not require nomenclature

but speak loudly for themselves

actions speak louder than words.

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/21

how small we are

how frail how precarious 

no sturdy carapace

no camouflage

nor ferocious roar

just wits and guile

and reasoning

to navigate this world

awash with peril

how small we are

to face such dangers 

unprepared

save for our chameleon traits

to change or die

knowing when to hide

and when to hunt

when to travel

and when to breed

we colonise, we war

we preach we love

how small we are, and yet

we hold the world to ransom

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/21