Saturday mornings

mother at the hairdressers

push the furniture back

play wrestle with my father

clean the horse brass

while he does the hoovering

before she comes back

chips for dinner

then dad down the bookies

chalking not betting

me watching Town down the rec

come home plastered

me not my dad

he isn’t a drinker

even though we live opposite pub

sisters out on the trot

me, head in a book

early night if it’s fishing Sunday

*

© Graham Sherwood 12/2019

Savage and sensual,

the tumult of this circling wind

high on the Col

howling like an Apache,

trying to scalp my hair

with clawing rough-raw gusts.

It doesn’t want me here

to share the panoramic view

it thinks it owns,

jealously tugging and ripping

setting my head aflame.

I scrimmage intensely

against such dynamic power

a comedic leaning gait

doggedly not giving ground.

I have earned this right

to bathe in the sculpted beauty

of these velvet magenta curves

and higher still

the eroded craggy fanged Dentelles

with scruffy cack-bedraggled sheep

swept like leaves

against the dry-stones.

*

© Graham Sherwood 12/2019

my heels clack, 

washboard thimble rasps

scratching brashly

on the frost scrubbed cobbles,

later, after the snow has flown

we become mute, entranced

listening intently

to the dumbed weight of quiet

throughout the lanes,

senses are forced taught, bleached and

distilled by the biting air

that squeezes and threatens

our pinched lives,

we suffocate under this thin pallor 

of crystalline deceit

drowned hollow ghost faces

astonished, fearful.

*

© Graham Sherwood  12/2019

Step-picking carefully

through the littered garden corpses

my final coup-de-grace,

lopping, unearthing, casting out

the last of the summer loveliness, 

now vague 

rime-embalmed statues all,

dampness hangs at every turn, 

underfoot, in stinging nostrils

pervading thick warm clothing,

on each flat surface, 

brittle steel reflections on riven stone

shimmers in buckets not stowed upside-down

frozen droplets toboggan on window panes

the earth is wet, 

soddened, brimming full,

the fresh vapour of death, nauseous

has stolen through the cracks

festering, funereal, forlorn.

*

© Graham Sherwood 12/2019

Just a pub, in the middle of nowhere

we shouldn’t even have been there,

a hastily reorganised second choice

having been let down, last minute.

Then the slightly bo-ho woman, 

ordinary enough, I suppose

nursing a G&T, reading a scruffy paperback

dog asleep under the table,

it was the dog that caught your eye, 

Glen of Imaal Terrier, rare-ish now

spitting image of Rosie, our last, gone ten years.

The woman looked up and she knew, you knew

as you beckoned me over,

his name was Stanley and the story unfolded,

her mother-in-law had Imaals first

from breeder’s in Northamptonshire

and I though you would faint

as you grabbed my arm looking stunned,

her first pup was named Spud, the whole litter

named after potatoes.

Then you couldn’t wait to tell her 

that Rosie’s pedigree name was Cara, 

Spud had been a sibling

as the colour returned to your cheeks

thoughts turning to breeders Bob and Jane

dear friends, both dying recently

a mere eighteen months apart, and

how they would have been tickled pink

to hear about this coincidental meeting

but we couldn’t tell them.

We both felt peculiar on the way home

happy, sad, bittersweet, tearful

all down to Stanley, Rosie and Spud

and the lady in the second-choice pub

reading the Celestine Prophecy.

*

© Graham Sherwood 12/2019

We flew to Utah yesterday

Bea decided we should go

so, we made some paper passports

and boarding cards, you know,

then sitting on the staircase

one behind the other

Grandma was appointed cabin crew

to sort out any bother,

like suitcases and snacks and stuff

or sitting on the aisle,

she made us very comfortable

it was going to take a while, so

she showed us the life preserver

that looked suspiciously like a bra

and pointed to the emergency exits

thar and thar and thar!

eventually we landed

tripping off the bottom stair,

into the lounge for duty-frees

selecting them with care

from the fireside ornaments

magazines and stuff,

until the clock struck midday

when Bea had had enough,

so we climbed back up the fuselage

and tottered along the wing,

down to kitchen baggage claim 

each with a sprightly spring,

we’ll keep those important documents

ready for our next version

of Bea’s staircase aeroplane

and her next pretend excursion,

this way we travel free around the world

a global boarding pass 

on Bea’s imagination

Staircase Airlines Business Class

*

© Graham Sherwood 11/2019

A stiff November morning 

washes my face with its damp flannel breath,

and hangs like Monday’s washing, 

broad damp blankets that we were scolded

for running through as children, 

but alas no Persilled perfume today,

a metallic leaden nostril-stinging taint, 

everything stinks, the paths, fences, roofs

all smell of a grey rancid meaty moisture.

Over the lank sodden meadow,

obese owners, walk obese dogs, 

plodding their well-worn clockwork routes

in well-worn shapeless clothing, before

stepping particularly

like careful fat hens

between the uncut tussocks, searching

as if the offer of sustenance were promised.

Three sturdy beeches having watched each season

four generations past,

fold their rustling coats and doze

through this vaporous mire.

*

© Graham Sherwood 11/2019

The tambourine rattling shudder 

of dry leaves in a freshening wind

the rhythmic hiss of surf and 

rinsing chisk of pebbled beaches at high tide

the dense oppressive hum 

of thickening fog under electricity

the raucous drumming of raindrops 

in a sharp downpour

the yawning, stretch and exhale

of a secret valley at sunrise

the murderous squeal of a peregrine

*

© Graham sherwood 11/2019

I am haunted by

the chaos of youth,

its reckless bravery

the baptismal immersion of first love

or suicidal desolation of love lost,

its faithless wanton purity

and immature self-belief,

the devilment of temptation

with the surety of disappointment

yes I am haunted by

the beauty of youth

but would return there

in the blink of an eye.

*

© Graham Sherwood 11/2019

The stream, 

the colour of black tea

chuckles over flat stones 

and fine gravel

as it bustles past my rod,

whether this hurried mirth 

is privy to my chances 

 of catching a trout

is anyone’s guess.

I carefully enter the water

become elemental, fluid,

its first volcanic chill courses

through my limbs until parity

brings relaxation, I am calm

I begin to read the water.

Sure enough, beneath the alder, 

before a churning riffle

a slack pool, darkly overhung 

Judas ripples 

a scoffing sup keens my eyes, 

again!

betrayed by hunger, a fish rises.

It isn’t a large fish

I surmise a dry Grey Duster 

will do the job,

tied small, size sixteen

barbless hook, longish leader,

each piece fingered gently,

joined seamlessly.

One false cast behind to check

the fly’s behaviour, cautious,

the alder bows low here

a yard above the water 

no more, it won’t be easy, 

one chance

to drift across his eyeline.

The cast is perfect, 

kisses the stream and begins to glide 

toward the dark pool,

time slows, a measured calm

expectant, 

motionless

then!

*

© Graham Sherwood 11/2019