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

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