Faceless, names long-forgotten

sour mendicants, trolls and crones

watch and wait, and

doze around the dying embers

of their camouflaged anonymity.

Sleep eludes them, and with

their crippled self-belief

flapping in the winds of battles lost,

they, cursing, spit foul bile

that sizzles briefly on hot stones.

*

© Graham Sherwood 09/2019

Always you two, 

always was 

now, always will be

you have realised

our fears of being parted

but come together once more

on this God-awful morning.

As requested

we’ll wear bright colours 

and we’ll smile

at your hilarious eulogy,

the humour a given, even

from beyond the grave.

It’s the dignity that shines

how you both left us

quietly and discreetly

slipping away

as if for an assignation

you both now share.

We’ll return 

when the earth has settled

and wrapped itself around you both,

seeing both your names

carved in stone

we’ll check the spelling carefully

and smile

as you would have done.

*

© Graham Sherwood 09/2019

My knackered right knee 

went west half an hour ago, 

and somewhat indecorously

I crash onto the garden bench,

an overweight sponsored skydiver,

landing too hard for comfort.

Fitbit throbs, and

gradually records a pulse, so

my recovery confirmed

I open my eyes, and regard

the generations of trees and

muse upon my family.

Matriarch, Joan

a splendid ninety-one

the stately cracked willow.

Two prodigal sons, each busy bearing fruit,

a greengauge and a damson.

But my eye rests easily

on the lively skittish braeburn, 

a five year old whippet yet,

the garden’s granddaughter.

I watch each tree move to a rhythm

the season, the year,

all marking their place, 

growing, responsible.

*

© Graham Sherwood 09/2019

Hear the tribes squabble,

the elders cackling

 over rights and wrongs

and how it was back

 in their day, times past,

the thrusting young-heads

bared teeth and soft fists

chunter venomous

words from gastro pubs

screw the petition!

*

© Graham Sherwood 08/2019

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