over breakfast

we sat and discussed poets

for the first time,

somehow, we got tangled up

in a strange conversation

about Hyperion and laudanum,

I told you I wasn’t keen

on poetry that rhymed

you didn’t seem surprised

and asked if many people were

these days,

on occasions I heard myself talking

but didn’t recognise the words

and wondered surreptitiously

if you had ever read anything

that I had written,

then I thought, if you had 

did you recognise

me amongst the words

*

© Graham Sherwood 01/2021 

on these wintry Saturdays

when the Telegraph ‘cryptic’

is inpenetrable,

capricious weather

thumbs its nose, should I merely 

don my hat or scarf

the new season’s seed catalogues

tease the colourful bounty of spring 

and summer sunrises, are

many dark mornings hence

there’s little to be done

but drink good claret, 

cut freshly baked sourdough bread, 

munch strong cheese

and read poetry that doesn’t rhyme

*

© Graham Sherwood 01/2021

it’s a beautiful random gift,

completely unexpected unprepared for,

instead of the day’s epilogue

an overture a single spotlight 

a Midas moment

burnishing such ordinary trees

from drab to brilliance

stopping me in my tracks

eyes transfixed

for fear I might miss a second

of this amber blaze,

beneath, the willows forget to bow

stretching up like waking children

tricked and confused

as man and nature both rejoice

to witness this spectacular 

fleeting cinder spark

that blinks and slowly exhales

as finally the solar curtain falls

*

© Graham Sherwood 01/2021

not that I am a believer, but

I was asked recently by a child

if God was dead

sod and bugger

they never ask anything easy

do they?

then I got to thinking

about the man Jesus,

most of us of an age

have lost their father

some earlier than others

what about Jesus?

his old man is eternal

as he indeed is himself

so how does that work?

Jesus is knocking on now, but

he can’t exactly take over the reins

to all creation, can he?

not while God is still at work

or has God hung up his halo

doused off the thunderbolts

and is letting the lad have a go

so I said no, God isn’t dead

he’s still on the lookout

but Jesus is in training

and is probably running the show

which might explain why

some little things go wrong now and again

the child seemed happy with that

*

© Graham Sherwood 01/2021

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