the footpath heaves crazed and cracked

I see a river course, tributaries, deltas

deep fissures, dark crevasses, having 

sliced through stone are fed by rain,

colonised by weeds

that might be wadis or oases

in this minute world that co-exists,

I cannot step upon these cracks

something bad will happen

a cataclysmic event, throwing me

pell-mell into the abyss,

I tread carefully here

*

© Graham Sherwood 08/2020

out early walking Mabel,

heatwave coming to an end

still an oppressive half-dark 

well after dawn, close,

thunderstorms are set to arrive

one obese jogger, two fishermen

already set up, otherwise it’s deserted,

hoping for a chance rendezvous

from my previous encounters

she appears to be a creature of habit

always dressed the same

white coat, black tights, bright yellow boots,

painfully shy

often cleverly avoids me

without it appearing obvious,

but this morning, 

perhaps pre-occupied

I got close enough to speak

but what to say?

a compliment perhaps

no too forward

comment on the weather

pleeease!

just good morning then

we’ll see how it goes, 

wish me luck

*

© Graham Sherwood 08/2020

I have a right

it’s said time over, but

who confers that right, 

so eagerly professed, 

lauded freely, loud

foreign boat people

people of colour

l.b.g.t.q.i.a.p

the imprisoned

homeless, our children

dogs and cats 

are rights bought

sold or earned

does someone’s right

wrong another’s right

who’s right?

surely I have right to know

*

© Graham Sherwood 08/2020

last night I slept with the curtains open 

the lower boughs of the nearby copse

framed by my small window

anticipating early sun to stream through

it took a few minutes to register that

it was still murky at the first crow-caw

4.47am, the morning’s footlights 

weren’t ready to herald the chorus-line

of gently quivering branches

as the backdrop colours rose

from stone blue grey to pallid salmon

black trunk silhouettes morphed to bottle green

an unexpected bold and breezy dawn

whistled through the cracked willow

embarrassed to disappoint me

*

© Graham Sherwood 08/2020

as a child

I saw you in that golden time

believed your stories, parables

sang your songs

I loved you unreservedly

whispered prayers

to save my family and friends

sought not to see your face

hold your robes, touch your hand

knowing was enough, faithful

then you let me go

amongst foreign tongues

the grey-bearded science

the seers the oracles

the sirens the warriors

teachers athletes lovers

armed with chisels, hammers

calloused hands

that shaped and cut and polished

that emerging man

now dimmed, frail, pensive

searching for forgotten paths

long buried by 

the chippings, shavings, dust

shed in a lifetime’s quest

for the meaning of it all.

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/2020

thieves steal hours from my days

each week another life-long hero dies,

wailing chords fade in the wind

the lash of minstrels’ tongues fall silent

painted canvases wear muslin thin

their creators now in caves,

the young have become my masters, 

but in turn have become

slaves to their machine,

no need or respect for mentors

questions, answers, decisions, options

arrive on a fingerstroke,

I am dislocated, impatient

guiltily bathing in a false calm

Zen texts held to my breast

like a saviours’ scripture

upon which I must now rely

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/2020

darkness outside, black and blue,

a watercolour wash 

separated by the jagged horizon

of a nearby roofscape, angular, 

stark, an origami fold,

pierced by four brilliant rectangles 

the only light 

stencilled onto the night,

a bedroom light

a brazen beacon

a rampant plant

filling the centre pane,

curtains are never drawn

a trap pulling in the eye

tense, no sign of life,

I am a moth to your flame

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/2020

saying good morning was your mistake,

before your latest blood-letting

a nod to your whiskey glass

our reality check,

not to be fooled

by your tidy appearance

trim beard, new shirt, haircut

the real you, still there

never happier than when wallowing

in the fox shit of your past

like a naughty dog

that will eventually come to heel

for a redemptive bath in our sympathy

you, oblivious to the fresh gashes

we bandage after each sermon

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/2020

there’s nothing to see

isn’t that the real problem,

avoiding the unseen, the invisible

not knowing where to look,

everything feels dangerous

worth a second glance

a wider berth,

we become isolated

insular untrusting,

donning masks

we appear furtive, uncomfortable

spurned amateur bandits

speaking only with our eyes

wary

cursing the reckless, 

the young the fearless

who sense it is now their time

their war

where nobody fights but

many will die, 

their bloodless coup

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/2020

black hearts with white faces

I rage to witness the

privileged protestants 

who rinse their devious hands 

in that cold-blooded cauldron

the ‘bame blame’ cul-de-sac

littering ten-pin effigies

in no-one’s name.

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/2020