The wide pale blue, milk stirred through it

a vague moon still out, horses’ tails lash satin

it’ll be warm soon.

Bella, my holidog, weaves

under early elderberries

with her typical hoovering nose sweep

just the occasional frown back

as if to say,

‘you’re not too good at this, are you?’

I respond despondently.

All the nature fruit seems early

blacks, hips, haws, elders

even a few embarrassed sloes

line the bridle-path, like

nosey neighbours.

Truthfully, we’ve overdone it

especially following the 4am piddle call

Bella’s not mine, for a change.

So we share my water in cupped hands

then the drag home, and

as she flops on her bed

I get one last cynical glance, to say

‘it’s day one, you’re going to have to learn

to pace yourself’.

*

© Graham Sherwood 08/2019

The audience is very sparse tonight

thirty-odd at best, evenly spaced by choice

barring a few couples mostly widowed.

As an incomer, I sit behind

and count the turnout of tight grey heads,

locals, none under seventy.

Although the surroundings are familiar

none take off their coats, as if making ready

for a swift exit.

They ‘otch’ uncomfortably, all chewing toffees

between the cheeks of their arses

on the unforgiving metal chairs.

Warily, they are curious about

who is sitting behind, who risked coming in late 

and now has the advantage of

scanning the room, but no-one looks around

for fear of having to greet one another

before tea is served, following

‘any other business’.

*

© Graham Sherwood 08/2019

It was a stupid thing to ask,

how is the pain?

your reply, 

“it’s painful, that’s all I can say”

delivered with your trademark wit,

so close to the end of things.

As expected, 3am this morning

you took your leave,

quietly as usual, understated

the text message brief,

like a wartime  telegram.

Me, left behind to grieve

somewhat disingenuously

hope you’re walking hand in hand 

with lovely Jane once more, both

resplendent in outrageous hippy kaftans.

I only loved you in that way

of which men cannot speak,

that manly way,

delivered through a handshake 

a patted back, a knowing nod,

a mate, a mucker, a friend.

*

© Graham Sherwood 08/2019

it’s not my idea

of fun, dirt, grief, hopelessness 

strife-torn sightseeing

*

the thin battledress

you wear, fits three sizes large

hem dragging dirt floors

*

buttons for medals

buttonholes gaping war wounds

shoulders on elbows

*

badges sown to sleeve

regularly scratched like scabs

some half on half off

*

no not my idea

of fun, clothes that don’t fit well

irritate your skin

*

© Graham Sherwood 08/2019

A dear friend lies dying

he knows it as do 

I, this might be my 

last visit, we talk of 

many things but never mention 

death, I ask if he 

has retired to bed early 

or else late to rise, 

both knowing he is bedridden,

my dear friend lies dying.

*

Q1: Graham Sherwood 08/2019

I was there

and heard your flesh turn to ash

in that pious sanitized furnace,

my glazed eyes lost far more 

than the sight of you as the flames roared,

myriad memories too were burned out, shrivelled

and dashed to the winds that blind us, 

the winds that force us to wither inside,

to forget those infinitesimal motes of me and you,

the ageless winds that cut our faces, make us old.

Will there be a place, a celestial cache

for lost memories that weren’t

shared or couldn’t be passed between us,

mindlessly rekindled over cups of tea

or pints of beer, that

weren’t urgently bequeathed

for safety’s sake, by a simple touch of hands,

a repository where one day we’ll meet

and rummage through those lost things

as at a bazaar, a place where we can

stitch ourselves together once again

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/2019

I see you running, languid
like a toned athlete
everything working in a straight line, syncopated
before you tumble and flip over
the metal bike park hoops
without a care, flashing your pants,
untamed hair upside down
hanging like a ogre’s beard, inverted
you glance at my terrified face
and send me that mischievous smile
which silently comforts
‘Don’t worry Papa’.
O that I could freeze you there
in that perfect childhood moment.

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/2019

We sleepwalked to this union
and its devious, contrived claws
led by faceless souls and ambivalence
a club to end all wars.

Where nation speaks unto nation
no communality of tongue
apart from broken English 
an anthem left unsung.

A vastly corrupt confrerie
a wondrous seat at table
until one mentions exodus
to leave if one is able.

Divorce, a deal, a payment
ambivalence is lost
the faceless faced with heresy
can only count the cost.

Close to the heart, our faceless
squirm to the left and to the right
on battle weary chargers
talk broken English shite.

The gravy train is near derailed
the station master shakes
passengers now walk the tracks
union fractures as it quakes

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/2019

Just a scrap of black fluff,

I’d never have noticed

were it not for the worry

of the mother bird 

her grub-stuffed beak

darting in and out of the ivy,

a regular, frail cheep

rewarded all afternoon

before the fast that darkness brings.

With the chick in the open

and the threat of next door’s

bastard cat,

I gave it a hasty refuge 

a broken garden trug

stuffed with strips of newspaper,

a slim chance at least.

Tough little bugger

still hunkered down come morning,

another day of delivered treats,

mother urging survival

now from dense underplanting,

that persistent cheep marking out the day.

There are several young blackbirds in the trees

a hidden nursery,

my little ball of black fluff

might be one.

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/2019

I discard any thoughts of sanity

sitting here, well below the salt,

harking intently

to the panoply of experts pondering

catalysts, paradigms and blame.

My Trappist quarantine,

self-imposed, hangs heavily

like a condemned man, who 

considering his final request,

is mindful of its ultimate disappointment.

For experts never heed advice

require no Agora, no audience, no theatre

but balancing on the fragile flotsam 

of their certainty,

will always steer towards the sun.

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/2019