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

pale purple flowers

could even be weeds

albeit pretty ones at that

all day every day

whenever I care to look

he’s there, worrying the delicate flimsy heads

a bumble Bee, a portly chap, 

bounces like a tightrope walker

too heavy for the tensile blooms

a bulging corbicula

strapped to his knees

baggy trousers brimming 

all day every day

this aerial dance continues

pinballing to and from the buffet

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/21

a new moon

pinned like a tin badge

silver on black

hangs high over Joe’s house,

early stars seem to wobble

loose sequins 

on a cocktail dress,

a recliner, a blanket

it’s a beguilingly warm night,

the garden birds have quietened

save for the restless slap clap

of two belligerent pigeons,

somewhere a hedgehog

is trundling along the gravel boards

navigating to the worm fields,

the evening is easing, the world

my small part of it, exhales,

another day is chalked off

sleep begins to envelope us

tonight, there is no reason

to think about tomorrow.

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/21

words spew onto a clean page

new words still glistening

in their fresh birthing milk,

raw like bile, bitter words

forcing their way out

they capture my eyes, 

callously sneering

use me or lose me 

this is your chance

ripe sweet dewy words before they parch

and become dead, still life

abandoned forever angry

I am weak from this trauma 

but try to fight them, wrestling

like trying to clothe a child

who wants to race undressed 

into the street bare-arsed

oblivious to the stares of others

to condemnation thin as faith

unaware of their folly

until it’s too late

I had the chance to give them life

but worried only how they were dressed

and still they glare, 

a lifeless lexicon, a wasteland , where

I failed to breathe life

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/21

is being awake, woke?

if woke is aware

am I wanting?

if I can’t like everyone

am I a racist?

if so, who says so?

where do I fit?

I may not notice

this new enlightenment

is that my crime?

am I too late

or have I missed the bus?

am I to be labelled irrelevant 

in your new society?

or

am I over-thinking this?

how and why did this happen?

I need to sleep on this!

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/21

on the deck, pots watered up

and earlier clouds have

stopped boxing one another’s ears,

it’s the best part of the day

the warming weak sunshine

sprays garnets and rubies 

through a hole the squirrel made

in the parasol. and

onto my glass of Cairanne, 

pasta and chorizo baking on the hob

reassuringly ready soon,

I have no need for elsewhere

and will settle for these 

creature comforts,

in this moment 

I can almost hear the tomatoes grow

less than a yard away

this is my Eden, my space 

I can breathe here

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/21

for the first time

perched ungainly just above

the reedy margins of the lake

he straightens up, not amused

to look my way

spear beak pointing accusingly

“where have you been”?

 his haughty crusty look implores

I answer only in my head

“away, far too long”

downstream the sluices are open

forcing the half-pipe weir to rage

above the sounds in my head

the Morse code rapping in my chest

“take it easy”

I’ve walked this lake, our lake 

a thousand times

but this time feels

like uncharted territory

albeit still in sight of land

half way now

as the path turns for home, 

light rain spitting on my cheeks

the lake reflects this silver morning

the rippled surface like hammered metal

nearly there

Seamus and Sandra gardening 

ease and wait for me to pass

they’ll expect to hear the full story

from the horse’s mouth

and then I am close, it’s done

another tick off my list

on cue, grey folds to blue

a stroke of warm to reward my effort

I see anxious eyes at the window 

already moving to beckon me through the door 

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/21