grey fields should be green,

oversized exotic plants

in wrong locations,

cacti, equatorial ferns

banana trees crowd

a shopping mall,

but there’s food galore

shelter and plenty 

of air, warm air

and best of all 

no cats here,

the perfect habitat

save one aspect

one missing piece

of this avian idyll, 

the freedom to leave.

*

© Graham Sherwood 06/2020

nothing hurts so 

I know I’m not dying,

looking up to the vortex

my granddaughter’s crying,

legs buckling neatly

like a card table folding

luckily my wife

has grabbed a firm holding, and

wedges me awkwardly

holding me there

miraculously someone

appears with a chair, it

prevents me from plummeting

my dignity saved

as faculties return from

their excursion unscathed,

I ponder the episode, a

low blood pressure faint

a pole-axed bull

Olga Korbut I ain’t,

next time recline quickly

my nurse tersely chides

or else there’ll be blood

on your short back and sides,

*

© Graham Sherwood 06/2020

I sit in the dark 

salved by the quiet hum

of a 3am night, 

I feel no pain as

coarse spilt words 

pile up haphazardly 

at my feet but 

smoother sounds

cocoon the sharps

to somehow keep the peace,

under this dull timbre

I try to remember poets

writers, musicians, lovers

but can’t think of any, 

it’s as if I’m required

 to write a sentence 

that will save the world,

somewhere a child

is being born

elsewhere an old man dies

somewhere a murder

otherwhere a suicide fails,

I sit in the dark

bleeding fingers 

now holding the words

that will change the world

and I wonder who to tell

*

© Graham Sherwood 06/2020

I ask her for news, and she answers

‘there’s three lying dead in the village’

and I smile wryly

envisaging the handiwork

of a crazed local miscreant,

wondering which streets are littered with corpses

sharp as a tact she is ahead of me

with a sombre roll call,

Jim Amey never recovered from that stroke

and Betty Simpson was knocking-on anyway, 

they said it was pneumonia but

Connie Dixon was a shock though,

I only saw her last week in the post office

buying a birthday card for her daughter,

she’s in Canada,

evidently just dropped dead in the Co-op

this Saturday,

the vicar’s going to be busy,

they were saying in the café

that Jim’s kids have already got the ‘for sale’ sign up,

mind you that came from Mary Chapman,

christ! she’s laid the weight on, she’ll be next,

‘so what else is happening’, I ask,

‘oh! not a lot, nothing much happens round here’.

*

© Graham Sherwood 06/2020

the wet earth is tinctured black

by chimney-sweep soot

charging the soil with 

dark roast coffee grits,

~

stark against the fragile 

green bean leaves where

wafts of sleeper tar, smoke

and aged red wine draw up

~

the watercan clatters

against slim buttressed canes,

a tinny raucous percussion

the clank of ghostly chains

~

there’s serenity here

a oneness, man and soil

a shared elemental eucharist

unheard prayers are offered.

*

© Graham Sherwood 06/2020 

We amble around the garden each morning, 

thankful the weather remains fine, 

like convicts in an exercise yard, 

pausing to stare at the old wall

as if it were the reason

for our liberty being restricted,

we show no inclination to escape.

As with most prisons 

there is much work to do,

two huge bags of gravel to shift

so, I set to it, a slower version

of Cool Hand Luke,

cursing as I scrape my knuckles

on the narrow gatepost

with each barrowload.

The bags when empty make

a cheap weed-control membrane

although their deconstruction is arduous,

I surmise the opposite of sewing mailbags

and am minded to think, whether the lags 

still do this to earn their snout.

An afternoon weeding the raised beds 

I am calmly monastic, another self-incarceration

at peace in that full-belly manner

following a satisfying lunch.

an innocent self-isolating lifer

resigned to measure my sentence

in the warm quarantine sunshine.

*

© Graham Sherwood 05/2020

Chipper almost blasé,

only 297 today

announced like a fisherman’s catch,

almost disappointedly,

the daily briefing

I strain to hear from the patio,

the insides of my eyelids blaze

pink from the early evening sunset,

the day is finally weakening, soon

the smell of supper

and the pithy grip of dry white wine,

that’s good to hear I say,

it might be all over by Christmas.

*

© Graham Sherwood 05/2020

a ‘dreamwake’,

asleep but aware at

3am, consciously

watching lights whilst

basking in the bedwarmth,

a piddlewalk broke the spell

and curiously, perched

above my neighbour’s roof

Mars glowed alone

as I stared

into the milkscape night.

*

© Graham Sherwood 05/2020

a thin robin caught my eye 

through the front door glazing

comically balancing a long twig in its beak

between two flowerpots on the low wall

thwarted by the insufficient aperture

the twig jammed repeatedly

be he tightrope-walker or man with plank

his exertions were hilarious

later I watched him dancing

with errant dried leaves

and I knew building was underway

the ivy had been his home before

for three days he worried tirelessly

unused garden chaff littering the path

two weeks later, in the back garden

with early morning zazen and tea

quietly on the shaky old bench

I cannot bring myself to throw away

I spied his new abode

a seed tray in the potting shed

his entry via the perished felt

a perfect summer lease

*

© Graham Sherwood 05/2020

pocket-sized 

silver chestnut

stainless steel shiny

reassuringly tactile 

in the palm of my hand 

comforting almost

slides open 

oyster pearls

regulating my life 

four times a day

a clock striking

eight two six and ten

 drugs to keep me ticking

this tiny Alessi pill pot

always with me a reminder

of fragility and a failing heart

*

© Graham Sherwood 05/2020