I knew by the doing 

there would be tears

not from the hot aches

as your frozen fingers thawed

under warmed water

from the scullery sink

your tiny hands poaching

to a cranberry raw

nor from the spoiling antics

of your cantankerous younger brother

hell-bent on disruption armed

with a salvo of cannonballs

I watched fascinated

from the window as you meticulously

surveyed the pure white canvas

deciding where to start

an artist torn between subjects

sniffing the wind

from somewhere, everywhere

you drew him up, sculpting

first his handsome portly frame

and then a neckless head

you named him Stevenson

from a book I was reading

you found beneath my bed

whilst rummaging for an old scarf

for three unlikely days 

un-seasonally cold 

your proud monolith

on its green-flecked plinth

surveyed the carpeted garden

with a stoic but satisfied smile

I was ready for you, for your tears

having seen the forecast

your mother, forewarned

offered various shopping treats

but distraction tactics at breakfast

failed to divert your mission

then again perhaps you already knew

snowmen never say goodbye

*

© Graham Sherwood 01/2021

what are heroes

for even heroes die,

 our muses 

 sport literature fashion music et al

 their legacies are the well laid paths

 upon which we strew our laurels

 while eternally suckling their milk 

 from our pan-voracious world,

 we copy we follow we style 

 we hum their hypnotic tunes, 

 we dress alike we recite their words

 refusing to let them pass 

 even as they fade to vague,

 become smoke disparate wraiths

 we hold them up admire them

 and shake out their final grains of magic,

 for we the watchers readers listeners

 didn’t climb our own Olympus, 

 when we had the chance 

*

© Graham Sherwood 12/2020

the death throes of a savage foreign wind

roar, gargling down the chimney flue

scalping soot motes onto the hearth,

a terrifying beast sat angrily on the roof

morose lulls in its breathing

follow each guttural bellow

at which we cowardly cringe,

outside the trees bristle submissively

naked, cowering

and garden bric-a-brac dances

in raucous abandon to a hidden tune.

*

© Graham Sherwood 12/2020

bedtime christmas eve

bristling anticipation

sleepy boys and girls

*

© Graham Sherwood 24/12/20

Harold’s eighty-four

been neighbours over thirty years

lives opposite, 

our front doors stare each other out

impassive but alert

like ageing gunfighters

we do keep watch though

to make sure he’s up and about

he’s wobbly, had an operation on his neck

it’s taking its time

we keep a key, take the bins down

once a week, errands if needed

he’s had a tough few years

lost a wife and now two girls

in quite short order

we don’t know how he carries on

otherwise he’s sharp as a tack

reads a lot, biographies

knows a lot too

can always offer a decent quote

likes a glass of tawny port

says he was born on February 29^th

had his 21^st last year

we’ll keep watch

I think he’ll make a ton!

*

© Graham Sherwood 12/2020

we each have our place

within this maelstrom

our normal ‘see you soon’ au-revoirs

have absent-mindedly given way

to newly proffered ‘stay safe’ brief goodbyes

masked lips surrendered meekly

to flinching urgent eyes

walk, don’t walk, 

follow the signs

sanitize for sanity sake, 

scrub as a surgeon scrubs

and rinse your fruit

all hygiene mantras 

for our insides and outs

give wide berths, be polite

stay calm, stay cool

and stay alive

*

© Graham Sherwood 12/2020

secretly I wish for snow

such cleansing brilliance of

untrodden purity, if only for a moment

a fantastical serenity

shapeshifting the landscape, as

edges becoming curves becoming edges

an alien soundless world succumbed

suffocating in hypnotic dormancy

to make just one footprint

a single impression

grey to perfect white

directionless

bearing witness, 

to speak the words

someone was here.

*

© Graham Sherwood 12/2020

the stifling quiet

the soporific torpidity

that gently presses my ears

forcing blood to thump

like kettle drums 

upon my crown,

I unsuccessfully keen

for that distant secretive

tremulous knocking

ventriloquism in the trees,

the best I might hope for

is a chaotic splash of crimson

the briefest lick of a flame

within the green wood

before the muted torpor returns

and the spell lies broken

*

© Graham Sherwood 12/2020

I search for the Isle of Glass

where the healing sisters

might tend my wounds

with perfumed lotions and soothing oils,

this gentle pilgrimage, seeks

alchemy for my tortured heart

and choral verses to salve my troubled soul,

bandaged and heavily cloaked

I stare keenly from the prow,

never turning to meet the oarsman’s stare

intent for eternity’s sake 

to find my destiny  and the shore

*

© Graham Sherwood 12/2020 

Carefully, I rub a dark green holly leaf

between forefinger and thumb,                              

to feel its wet oily sheen, aware

the lightly dipped custard spears

search for my blood,

I gently squeeze a fat-juiced berry,

a robin’s banquet

spread around like the Jesus wreath,

along the hearthstone mantle’s chill

my fingers dance between

the tortuous ivy swag,                         

bundled cinnamon and littered 

clove-pricked orange sign the route

with strange perfumes, a heady brew,

silvered pine cones, glimmering beacons

reflect a bauble’s orbit

above a newly snuffed advent candle

patient for tomorrow’s flame.

*

© Graham Sherwood 12/2020