Autumn’s striptease has de-frocked

the ancient cracked willow,

winter’s bleak afternoon darkness, now

bears witness to early indoor lights,

The canopy now thinned

we may watch from our bedroom

we chuckle to see you puppet-show two dollies

jigging them across your window sill,

unheard, we can only imagine your stories

your adventures and pantomimes,

then you notice us and wave coyly

ourselves capering to make you smile

our very own puppet-show for you.

*

© Graham Sherwood 05/2020

Televisual tributes seep from every pore,

there’s dancing in the street, traffic stopped

stolen regimental caps and kisses for all. 

Then earnest grey lined faces stare

at nothing in particular, recounting

horror, loss, what might have been

that last embrace, that telegram home,

wrinkled lips tremble, a tear escapes.

A clever fade to old photographs

of those same faces, now nubile 

fearless, in black and white they fly,

beautiful lovers in uniform

shouting and facing down the storm.

*

© Graham Sherwood 05/2020 

An old weathered spitfire pilot veteran

stares straight into the lens,

grim mouthed, watering eyes

almost absent-mindedly recounting

those bloody awful days.

‘We prayed for bad weather, for clouds,

we knew that if the sun shone

they would surely come again’.

Command estimates one-fifty

bombers and support

just off Dungeness.

‘When we got there

there they were, so fucking many of them

like flies, swarming

and my first thought was

where do I start?

Cue survival statistics voiceover

‘I had a little prayer

that I repeated over and over

as I raced into their middle

300mph

short, three second bursts

of the cannon

just hoping to hit something.

It didn’t matter who made the kills

we never kept scores

we just had to stop them’.

Staring into the lens, pensive,

watery eyes now running

grim mouth tightening.

*

© Graham Sherwood 05/2020

Mostly, I remember the crazed dust motes

dancing chaotically in rapier light streams

thrown by the tall sashed windows,

each set high up, to dissuade 

our wandering attentions, offering

no view of the nearby verdant cricket pitch.

I remember absent-mindedly fingering

the inked-in desktop graffiti during story time,

as if reading Braille, my oblivious stroking

adding to the patina of generations past,

as fag card sporting heroes and long-lost loves

faded beneath my wandering fingers.

I recall the brown flecked worsted overcoat

you wore for early morning hymns and prayers,

at least the smell of it, a warming stench 

on chilly rainy days, cast iron radiators, fired up

to inflict first-degree burns.

But most dearly, I remember the crackle and hum

of the overpainted Tannoy, croaking out

a recording of ‘I vow to thee my country’,

and you standing to attention like a guardsman,

sixty years on, it still brings a tear to my eye.

*

© Graham Sherwood 05/2020

A perfect meal celebrates three seasons,

the starter commemorates that which is ending

giving thanks for the final offering of its bounty,

the main course, revels in the variety and flavour 

of the present, reminding us of our good fortune

and dessert, tempts us with possibilities to come.

Remember to season your food well

keep balance, celebrate the past

bathe in the present, 

relish the potential of the future.

*

© Graham Sherwood 05/2020

You think I don’t notice

when you just arrive surreptitiously

perhaps I may have been quiet for a time

reading, my head deep into something, or meditating

sometimes your explanations are risible

when I catch you out lingering, loitering 

you seem oblivious to your shadow

thrown like a rain cloud

your random requests for dinner suggestions

followed by an enquiring, ‘are you alright?’

I know you’re worried, me too

this unwelcome thing is important

neither of us saw it coming, blissfully naive

until it stopped me in my tracks

I saw the look on your face

as you registered what the doctor said

your rock, fractured, your foundations cracking

me looking like I’d been conscripted to go to war

now a month or two later, the shell-shock wearing off

life resembling normal, with adjustments

it’s time to stop the anxious frowning

the non-stop mental nursing

the anticipation of finding me

in a heap behind a door somewhere

*

© Graham Sherwood 04/2020

I read it somewhere, perhaps

It was a local heritage society page

that people should be writing down their thoughts

about life whilst this bloody virus

swirls callously around the globe.

I told my children

that one day their children’s children

will ask the question, 

‘what did you do in the pandemic grandpa’?

Well, I suppose it’s the nearest

their generation’s will get to see a war after all.

Tragically, all they’ll be able to say is

that we cowered at home to stay safe

whilst somewhere else, the Media

made a hero out of a real nonagenarian hero 

who walked around his garden

a hundred times without a care, for money!

*

© Graham Sherwood 04/2020

• 

I am policed by an under-nourished robin

a skinny little fellow, bold enough

to accept the worms I throw his way

as I sift and riddle the soil for a new raised bed.

Taking necessary ease, I consider the chaos

of encroaching roots, vibrant hidden veins 

I uncover with a hoe, 

hell bent on making this a trial.

There’s a comforting balm from the earth,

a rich satisfying unction on my fingers

announcing yet another season,

of expectation, satisfaction, wonder, faith

in how wonderful this world can be.

*

© Graham Sherwood 04/2020

Do you think

this is how asylum seekers feel,

surrounded by news of the dead 

daily watching the corpses handled

like butchers’ joints, 

impersonal references mere statistics

all of us secretly glad

it’s them not us, 

not today at any rate,

each poignant story is

tomorrow’s chip paper

there is no end in sight

to this fear, not yet

and we do as we’re bid, 

we are now refugees, as

we hope for better news.

*

© Graham Sherwood 04/2020