~

a marmalade sun briefly sets

the horizon aflame before

quenching itself as it climbs

behind the city’s silhouette,

it will be cooler today they say

on the early news and we might

already have had our summer,

I feel deluded and disquieted

by the phoney heat as if being

mislead by some greater force

that I do not fully understand

but am willing to be coerced by,

so with this self-satisfied 

scepticism and knowing that

good things do not last forever

I launch myself like a newly

christened boat into Tuesday,

it’s 5am and the city beast is yet 

to rouse its cantankerous head

itself still basking in this faux

continental sleight of hand

as I sit to consider my options.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 07/25

~

a hundred years gone

old champions are called 

to gather one last time

weary clansmen not for

battle or acts of derring-do,

to proudly stand with

warriors of today, 

old war wounds bravely put 

aside for one last hoorah

one final revel in the sun,

a bent, battered battalion

take their rightful place

to call out ‘we’ve been there 

done that, got the medals

you must all now strive

to do the same’.

(Junior Boys Javelin 1966)

© Graham R Sherwood 7/25

~

life, age, beauty,

all so fleet of foot 

entwined as one in

perfect balance

perpetually changing,

life that cruel teacher ,

age, its harsh sculptor,

and beauty a callous 

insatiable rover intent

on self-destruction.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 7/25

~

I look but do not 

yearn to see

I see but make

sense of nought,

does my knowing 

change a thing 

my knowledge is

scant and futile, 

my rich empathy 

is poor nutrition 

my compassion 

not clean water,

what good is my

knowing other than 

to rob me of sleep

feeling helpless.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 7/25

~

my rosary, a 3b pencil

rolled slowly between my

thumb and forefinger,

four inches long its

size does matter, 

needing to fit my palm,

mindlessly I count off poems

a form of giving thanks

whilst always expecting 

further inspiration,

I believe poets should give 

praise, be it to their god 

or to a dedicated muse,

a gentle supplication

to feed their hunger. 

*

© Graham R Sherwood 06/25

~

usually in one’s early teens 

that unsung beauteous age,

a predatory virus infects

the naive young heart, 

there is no defence, 

resistance being futile,

a music ear worm burrows 

deep within the helpless young, 

becoming resident 

a lifetime’s gift or curse,

music free to be sung unbid,

hummed, whistled, foot-tapped

widely played throughout

one’s life, funeral too,

the music never dies but

ravenously seeks another 

host so the beat goes on.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 06/25

~

visitors to Coalbrookdale

now stroll idly by inquisitively

peering into gift shops,

where busy flat-capped workers 

once scurried up the hill

to clock-on,

today the mighty river Severn 

is a languid tourist too, 

a redundant milked tea hued

serpent, on which yesteryear’s

heavily laden barges once 

plied a global trade,

the old steam rails now hide

beneath a verdant footpath,

and the rust-red skeletal bridge

that gave this place its name,

still proudly spans the gorge

iron legs akimbo like a

schoolboy intent on

catching sticklebacks,

whilst a resigned sadness

clothes this tiny place

its pride shines through

and if the solid buildings

could talk they would shout

‘we made stuff here’

*

© Graham R Sherwood 06/25

~

A cold, unforgiving 

cultural wasteland,

a monotonous desert,

staring into the void

two weeks pass and

no word of viable use 

directs my hand,

I have water to sustain 

me, colourless, bland, 

essential but I am still

consumed by blindness,

everything depends on

the night, as I wait alone

in the dark.

~

it’s the simple things 

that draw me to a halt, 

stop me in my tracks,

today an unmown field 

of buttercups, proudly 

stretching their necks 

colonising a paddock

we skirt around on our

daily constitutional

picture the scene, 

a beautiful acre

surreal, tiny golden faces, 

chin-up to the sun,

smiling coyly, as if butter 

wouldn’t melt,

such breath-taking beauty

is cruelly transient, 

a heavily blossom-laden

bush, like an exploding 

firework display 

two days previously,

now already spent

colours dulled.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 05/25

~

day to day

week on week

six soulless months

have ambled by,

reluctantly the

family buzzards

have circled, landed

and finally picked

the carcass clean,

next week

new folk arrive,

children’s voices

trilling, trailing

around their feet,

the sad thing is

for evermore, it

won’t be Joe’s,

just them at No 4.

*

© GRS 5/25