the house is waking,

the final weeks of warmth

surrender to the chilly

early mornings of autumn,

the heating yawns noisily

reluctantly beginning to stretch

checking arteries are clear

before stirring,

six-fifteen, still dark

I notionally trace each room’s 

begrudged awakening

each curse and languorous creak

with ears keening 

I murmur the journey

bedroom, bathroom, kitchen

as the autumn life-force courses

like blood throughout each room,

outside as summer colours turn

sap retreats, like a beaten warrior

seeking sleep

inside a new season begins, a new life

the house is breathing again

*

© Graham Sherwood 10/21

the clever one, she’ll do well

she makes everything look easy

an old head on young shoulders

the glue that holds us together

there’s no need to worry about her,

these rich superlatives

now tumble freely like sixes

thrown from beyond the grave,

to the wounded bird that must

once again learn to how to fly,

when all the sympathies 

and condolences are spent

flowers dead, cards packed away

photographs perused

a calmness will descend

and healing will fracture the sorrow

new feathers, new wings, desire

to fly up once again

(written for a young woman who lost her father this week)

*

© Graham Sherwood 10/21

the group grows

now seven from three

a cat’s cradle of memories

shuttling to-and-fro, as

we pass old haunts, they slide by 

like weathered pantomime scenery,

there’s no leader, just 

whoever’s at the front

occasionally stopping hesitantly 

like lost children

waiting for direction,

decisions are made on the hoof

close to five hundred years

of collective reminiscences

tumbling chaotically from

wrinkled lips and dampened eyes,

old homes demolished 

gardens become car parks

small yards and alleys narrower than 

the space between our failing ears,

we randomly remember 

old friends and some villains too

now all asleep up Station Rd,

young boys, became men, then old men

innocently reaching back

looking for something

that’s no longer there.

*

© Graham Sherwood 10/21

the people have spoken

‘populus locutus est’

when does the grumbling stop?

‘cum enim murmurans subsisto’

what happened to losing graciously?

‘quid amittere digneris’

It’s time to stop and think

tempus est prohibere et cogitare

and work together without malice

‘et simul sine malitia’

for the good of everyone

‘nam bonum omnium’

*

Graham R Sherwood 09/21

I am drunk on pronunciation,

the intoxicating aromas of syllables

soar and swirl around my head,

this lifeblood of our language courses

irreverently, from brain to tongue to brain

invoking my literal inebriation,

I promise never to speak again

nor wrestle contorting diagraphs

to submission on my lips,

instead I glide from verbal 

to mental acuity

no longer talking bollocks

*

© Graham R Sherwood 09/21

some talk of death and decay

the end of life and growth

the sunset of summer, 

a change in the offing

to darker times ahead

a cooling of air and blood,

but October’s children see

subtle colours, praise

the stealthy unheralded shift

to browns and golds, russet

and deep amber shades,

to them death is renewal, 

a harvest given

time for the earth to rest

and breathe a balmy sigh

*

© Graham R Sherwood 09/21

sun peels off cracked paint

blue flakes pepper the brown earth

fallen petals glint

*

© Graham Sherwood 09/21

it is said that he never missed a chance

often goals came in threes fours and fives

with his typically devastating nonchalance,

a true ‘Eastender’ 

pie and mash before each game 

but not what the Italians served up in ‘61,

Jimmy wore a cloak of invisibility

ghosting into the box

haunting defenders mercilessly

his six England hat-tricks, still a record

when football was still a man’s game

and not the pantomime it is today

RIP ‘little man’

*

© Graham Sherwood 09/21

and there you stood,

high up on that vantage point

erect, eyes closed

like Christ the Redeemer,

arms outstretched

crucifying yourself to the panorama

blindly drinking in the view,

you cried out, not in anguish

just sheer delight

before contorting like Lakshmi,

a writhing marionette innocent

unaware of your own beauty

the child bursting from the woman

you have seamlessly become,

your chrysalis wantonly cast aside

melting into the scorched grass,

for that one moment I had you back

balancing on that stone pillar

a snapshot briefly taken 

these days seldom seen

*

© Graham Sherwood 09/21

strange days indeed, this vibrant hillside bazaar

a fiddle, wooden drum and scratched guitar

robes flowing, grey thinning hair

pilgrims like starlings flocking there

both having nowhere else to fly

milk Arthur’s airy-fairy legend dry

aged hippies, yippies living out their youth

busk, juggle, beg in search of a truth

vegan joss and nicotine fritter away each day

tomorrow’s woes never dawn there anyway

a broken ruined abbey, lying desolate

slumbers quietly beyond a turnstile gate

the ghosts of monks, haunt the lay-lined earth

ancient carbon footprints that watermark the turf

*

© Graham Sherwood 09/21