who knows from where comes
this mischievous entity,
the musical daemon announcing unheralded
lyrical riffs, pressing selector buttons
perfectly lettered and numbered,
so the jukebox in my head begins
to spin involuntary chords
strumming intros, heartfelt lyrics
unheard for ages, like zephyrs
breathing in and out, with
the brevity of a smile,
the reminiscence of that place
the perfume of that beautiful girl
the madness of that summer
it will never let you forget

*

© Graham Sherwood 06/2021

I speak for myself

thinking not to coerce, induce 

or persuade 

words are offered freely

one opinion singular 

fragile unchaperoned

so why are my words deemed

dangerous virulent abrasive

they were  not sent to you

painted on your wall

spoken to your friends family lover

branded on your skin

but your indignation binds me

imprisons my freedom

you a litigant bruised easily

by feathered phrases are

jailor to my free words

temporal terrorist to my thoughts 

the hate you seek from me

lives within yourself

*

Graham Sherwood 05/2021

split consciousness

I’m dreaming and I know it

like watching myself in a film

never in colour, strictly monochrome

one camera, static, a single exposure

the consciences merge

permitting noises to infiltrate my dream

a persistent rap, a rhythmic tap

letterbox, door knocker, a woodpecker 

outside on the cherry

but the tempo is too slow

the dream vaporizes, I wake

the knocking remains, real

I can’t see straight yet, 

or swallow properly

and I need a piddle,

shuffling back to the window

I see the drummer

a Great Tit

hacking fruitlessly at the tit box hole

cut small to fit his cousin

I smile admiring his tenacity 

shake my head pitying his stupidity

but who am I? A sarcastic voyeur 

to chide him the tenacious slayer of dreams

*

© Graham Sherwood 05/2021

after lunch, a tagine

we dodged the showers

to see if the cricket was on

no sign of play, even though the sun shining

just a lap of the boundary

you resting at every bench

as usual

nearly home on the way back

we both rested on the village green

to chew the cud in the dappled light 

on a yew bench dedicated to a dead man

watching three young girls

taking selfies 

oblivious to the wet grass

our thoughts racing back to 1968

we had a heart to heart

both dancing around the potential 

poor outcomes of impending surgery 

without making eye contact 

both of us staring at a boat

about to disappear over the horizon

*

© Graham Sherwood 05/2021

the new runner bean canes are up

a tilting naked guard of honour

saluting themselves unceremoniously

across the empty raised bed

the allotment looks season ready,

tomato wires too have been tightened

and whistle a little in the breeze

but the plants are a fortnight behind,

robins, wrens and tits explore

these new vantage points

now the soil nets are off,

it’s time to face east

hold the pale Muscadet libation aloft and toast

new growth, new crops, new hopes

*

© Graham Sherwood 05/2021

were these the last words I write

the first would be the hardest

I would recall the very first sight

the serious girl, aloof, elegant

I thought you beautiful

and far too fine for me, then

our first rendezvous on the lawn,

you a settled fawn, intriguing, quizzical

while I foolishly filled the silences,

and after all this time, 

some fifty years or more

you might capture my eyes

and still know

I need not speak one word

*

© Graham Sherwood 05/2021

what’s done is done

you cannot change the past

it’s been laid to rest,

history is the cemetery

cast and chronicled in many forms

whatever your opinion

however outraged you feel

it’s buried, let it lie,

you might burn books

fell statues, redact names

your cauldron of indignation

haphazardly spilling over 

for what?

nothing will change,

consider a better education

to debate the wrongdoings

and norms of yesteryear

don’t try to scrub the slate clean

history is indelible

it’s in your blood

like it or not, get over it

*

© Graham Sherwood 05/2021

at the kerbside bluebells smudge

a pallid watercolour cobalt wash, 

a haphazard swathe of beautiful inky milk,

that mists the eye, 

but don’t stare at bluebells

their colour crystallizes and the vague effect

dissipates becominng real, hard, solid

and in losing their otherworldliness

they shrink and parch, submitting meekly

to the sturdy custard primroses.

*

© Graham Sherwood 05/2021

there were six of us

each pushing seventy,

back in the village

they now call a town,

looking for our ghosts

our pasts,

scratched on the walls, in the soil

nigh on fifty years too late,

the say never go back

things change,

get tarted-up or 

age and decay

as have we, but

there are reminders

marks on the ground

voices in the wind

infiltrating our banter,

wrinkled knowing smiles

that briefly show the child,

the child that scrumped

that conkered, that fished 

for tiddlers knee-deep in the stream,

and then the grown-up stuff

the lovers, loss, 

tragedies played out alone

the concise wisdom of looking back

and of course, the dead,

the school photo silhouettes

that couldn’t make today.

*

© Graham Sherwood 04/2021

today we measure fifty years 

and quietly give thanks

we are constants, we are rocks

I am yours as you are mine

unbreakable

our travel is without destination

always forward

sometimes apart never alone

each bend in the road

hand in hand

two became four became eight

we are family

*

© Graham Sherwood 17/04/21