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 

‘that’s bloody clever’

that’s what he said

holding my first pocket calculator

Texas Instruments,

‘give me some more numbers’

him more used to working out

his bookies winnings on the flap of

a woodbine packet,

how I’d love to snatch him back

just one day

him and the Iphone

he once saw on Star Trek

late 1969,

to look into those eyes and 

revel in his wonder

flicking through the apps,

YouTube horse racing,

searching for Sinatra

on iTunes,

speaking to his grandson

from the other side of the world

hearing her calling through

the serving hatch

with chicken fingers,

‘when did Adam get home then?’

because the reception was so clear.

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/2020

walk the dimmed aisle

find the dusty tome,

weigh its considerable corpulence

in both hands like Lady Justice

and as your blindfold falls away

let it drop heavily

onto the reckoning table.

Begin at the end

turn the pages in reverse,

some are brilliantly illuminated

others dull, of darker hue,

remove them cast them aside

to burn at leisure.

When it is done, 

with an oiled cloth

cleanse and invigorate

the cracked and tortured binding

replace this slimmer volume

to its place

look to the floor

strike a match

walk away smiling

you have done fine work.

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/2020

a strange land exists,

without borders

universal language spoken

peopled by faceless beings

or those with other’s faces,

all unknown all secluded,

there is trade here, a trade

in emotions distanced with

cyber sincerity,

the timid secure, contained

thrifty with contemplation,

the commerce of confidence

a currency won and lost

in anonymous gameplay,

beware the gamblers words

regard their eyes not hands

is the deal fair?

*

© Graham Sherwood 06/2020

birdsong still wakes me up

at 4.30am,

the tang of early morning air

still tastes the same

as does breakfast

muesli, fruit and yoghurt,

it’s been a might warmer

lately, no bad thing

but not so unusual,

the children still phone

more often of late perhaps

we even did a video thing

that was nice,

delivery drivers seem busier

in and out of our cul-de-sac

like white honeybees

several times a day,

I cleared out the garage at last, 

and some old magazines from 2005,

and dish-washed the Lego

found under the spare bed,

there’s fresh bread smells too

at least twice a week

I could get used to that,

and the raised veg beds

have never looked better,

I’m loving this ‘newmal’

*

© Graham Sherwood 06/2020

how to keep a sanguine heart

the question hangs limp

a vacant noose,

I don’t think I hate

or at least try hard

not to, but never show it,

it’s about rights

rights that we wave

like white flags,

like thin credentials

tissue paper testimonials

in search of an ear

they are plastered over icons

before they fall, but

rights are colourless

surely,

it’s indignation that hates

that wears a different skin,

aha!

now we’re getting somewhere

I must be prudent

as my legs climb the gallows

and my chin rests on the rope.

*

© Graham Sherwood 06/2020

the gap is only a yard wide

between house and garage,

more like a tunnel

a bloody wind tunnel,

decorative wall at one end

a handy dead-end

where we store old slabs

flower pots, 

the lawnmower bunker,

so, what in heaven’s name

possessed a pair of robins

to use this as a nest?

obvious

they can read can’t they! 

*

© Graham Sherwood 06/2020