it’s a different day out front, while

the patio is bathed in early spring sunshine

it’s Arctic outside the garage,

garden birds are busy

tardy blue tits scout out the birdbox

but the cautious wrens

are already half-built in the ivy, leaving

the stupid pigeons to parade around

aimlessly with twigs in their beaks,

you’re in your element

pricking out the tomatoes

that have thrived well

on the spare bedroom windowsill,

I swear it’s trying to snow again

god knows it’s cold enough,

then I hear the teapot’s clank

on the wrought iron table

and don’t wait for your call,

I leave Narnia

and as I walk through the gate

I hear you ask

‘Is a ploughman’s alright’?

and the pigeon drops his twigs.

*

© Graham Sherwood 04/2021

dead people walk through my dreams

silently spectating

in a form of reverie voyeurism, and

I am left to ponder

whether they also walk in this realm,

unseen in our woken hours,

keeping account, taking stock

shaking their heads, or nodding sagely

as they weigh our balances,

were we gifted but a fleeting glance

a daytime blink, of apparitions

witness to our manner,

what changes could be made?

*

© Graham Sherwood 04/2021

there’s your problem

you’re just not angry enough

to be a good poet,

of course, you would know

you’ve done the course, 

got the creative writing degree

know what a ‘McGuffin’ is,

you’re not very rock-and-roll are you

short hair, married half a century

you drive a Ford for fuck sake,

tell me one thing about you

that would surprise me,

okay, I’ve read all Murakami’s books

I haven’t been to the dentist since

I was a teenager, and

I’ve done a speed awareness course

for doing forty-seven in a forty limit

on a Sunday morning

after finishing my mother’s gardening,

haven’t you ever been arrested

been on a demo, fucked another woman

or even another man

Jesus Christ, you’re a bloody saint,

I did meet John Sebastian once

after a jug band gig

he punched my arm, gently

and said ‘oh man’

when I told him how I’d loved 

‘what a day for a daydream’

back in the sixties,

far out, but for my money

you need a healthy dose of tragedy

lose a close friend or your dog

start gambling, drink too much

like Dylan Thomas

now there was a real poet

*

© Graham Sherwood 03/2021

you think me privileged, but

my people came from peasant stock

land workers uneducated but honest

proud with little to show for it

you think me privileged, but

my people’s skin is no more white than black

the sun has etched its deep hue, but

colour doesn’t define me

you think me privileged, it’s true

my people were never slaves, but

they were never masters either

just loyal, hardworking, ordinary

you think me privileged, free, but

my people never ran away from war

never succumbed to the tyrant’s voice

never lost their mother tongue

you think me privileged, perhaps I am,

to name my people family

father mother sister brother

privileged to name these people kin

*

© Graham Sherwood 03/2021

do I know you?

I mean, do I really know you,

we used to speak often

a least once a week

sometimes more,

but the telephone has gone quiet

our conversations are now

few and far between

however, I feel I know you well,

I read about you every day

what you’ve done, eaten, watched

on TV, I even know

what your other friends think

about a wide variety of stuff,

but I don’t know you anymore,

the real you,

are we are drifting apart

in the flesh, so to speak?

even though we’re only a nanosecond away

a message, a ping, an alert,

telling me you’ve got something to say

but not just for me

you want to tell the whole world

now you’re everybody’s friend

and not just mine,

so, do I really know you?

the real you

*

© Graham Sherwood 03/2021

a tiny ball of fluff

barely that

a dart, a flitter

dipping its beak

cocking a snook, tail erect

here, there everywhere

but nowhere very long

a shrill tremulous songster

teet-teet-teet vigorously sung

as he builds, 

one nest, two or even three

a harem awaits

to lay white pebbles

on feathered beds.

*

© Graham Sherwood 03/2021

I will summon Radueriel

the rebel angel of the poets

master of the muses

and bid him to ask them 

to sing and dance for me,

to fill my head with sweet words

that linger on my breath,

I’ll make secret notes

and eavesdrop on their gaiety

then quietly steal away

pockets full and overflowing

a gluttonous word thief

*

© Graham Sherwood 03/2021

waiting for the kettle

half-awake before breakfast

daydreaming outside the kitchen door

smelling the morning, zen-like

whilst absent-mindedly mining raisins

from the dust of the muesli

shrivelled-up tiny black turds

camouflaged under the oat husks

two starlings catch my eye

synchronized pecking 

at the fat ball feeder 

two black lumberjacks

rhythmically sawing through a log

swaying metronomic

as my fingers mindlessly

delve through the cereal

rummaging for raisins, like a thrush

turning over the dead leaves

looking for a worm

*

© Graham Sherwood 03/2021

February, the longest month

lets slip our coattails

from its chilling breath,

pulls back the darkest shadows

and drags its sodden cloak away,

we cheer the peal of snowdrops

applaud the daffodils’ fanfare 

blow kisses to the primrose

the crocus and the violet,

for there is a frisson in the air

warm music on the ear

and a spring in our step

*

© Graham Sherwood 03/2021

there’s to be vigil

tonight

refuse sleep, stay awake

for a good reason

a death

we’ll keep watch, wait there

pray if you wish

bring a candle, a long one

warm clothing

we must be quiet, respectful

stay until the sun rises

then go your way

back to your lives

*

© Graham Sherwood 03/2021