After the long drought

the barely damp plough has a foot feel

of poorly made meringue,

a red kite circles at great height

its looping plaintive squeal mimics

the lusty wolf whistle of a butcher’s boy,

wheeling down majestically

with the elegance of a pantomime angel

carrion is daintily plucked, lifted skyward,

blackberries hang forgotten,

unwanted farm gate windfalls too

a cordial invitation ignored,

weak late-afternoon sun

plays hide and seek in smoky clouds

somewhere manure is smouldering,

seasons are negotiating dates

both listless for the change

newly barren plough lies pregnant

 

 

© Graham Sherwood 09/2018

Five tethered skiffs nod and bow,

carousel horses, tugging at salty ropes

that rise, then dip into the flotsam,

like skipping ropes twirled by lazy children.

Scornful, gulls balance on these bucking prows,

and from time to time take irritated flight

only to return to station

each bringing a grumbling squeal.

The fret flicks across the harbour

with an unheralded slap,

the sharp edge of its tongue

catching us unawares.

A windswept busker, back to harbour wall

sends flamenco notes into the maelstrom,

a box of urchin shells

like shiny painted fruits

for sale offered near his feet.

 

 

© Graham Sherwood 10/2012

 

I went in search of Eden

to worship Gaia once again

but had to join a shuffling queue

stood sodden in the rain.

 

I’d had to leave my car behind

parked up two miles away

and trudged along mesmerised

to a sunken pit of clay

 

They said I’d need a ticket

to enter the giant balls

where habitats from everywhere

shared space with waterfalls.

 

The price was pretty hefty

but the staff were all quite nice

who’d think you’d need an overdraft

to get into paradise

 

Inside was really busy

the queue became a tide

the staff said this was typical

when it was pissing down outside

 

The exhibits all looked careworn

I saw the giant bee

the rainforest was choc-a-bloc

with school kids running free

 

The Wee Man sculpture scared me

a massive metal hunk

made from toasters, washers, driers

and other white goods junk

 

I left quite disappointed

although my pass said come again

but if I ever return to Eden

it hadn’t better fucking rain

 

 

© Graham Sherwood 05/2015

When a man is young

his search is for love

old men seek only time,

love and time span a life

ergo life becomes their reflection

 

 

© Graham Sherwood 10/2015

Oh! for the opportunity,

to let her look into my

nonagenarian eyes,

to hold my hand

and to hear me say,

 

“Well Bea, how’s your life going so far?”

 

And she’ll kneel close,

close enough for me

to feel her breath,

as she whispers the words,

 

“It’s going well Papa, really well”.

 

 

© Graham Sherwood 11/2017

I choose leather stone and wood

the smell of dusk and pencil leads

colours made by music notes

the snap and flap of paper kites

the chaos of a lightening fork

movement through a horse’s loins

the hidden weight of snowflakes

the taste of ocean spray

 

© Graham Sherwood 08/2018

I will remember the day I met you,

that you made me special tea,

the badly washed-up mug unnoticed.

When I arrived with a friend

you were wearing men’s pyjamas,

and eating pancakes with a fork,

your face stopping me in my tracks.

From your tiny balcony

we smiled and pointed

across the dowdy roofscape

toward the lights and music that so beguile you.

Such fragile open beauty

an innocent beacon facing west,

in search of your tomorrows.

I shall tell others how we met

before the world knew you

and all your many faces.

 

 

© Graham Sherwood 8/2010

I can no longer look at your beautiful words

for fear they will search me out,

spilling effortlessly, still wet,

and warmed by your tongue

damp word bees, wings fanning out

to lay their glorious painted eggs

burrowing down to grow within my psyche,

And what then?

I’ll waste and hollow, a shell,

my words mated with your own

emasculated, dry, deserted,

a starved poet parched.

 

 

© Graham Sherwood 08/2018

We are all of the sea

there is salt in our blood,

the salinity of our beginnings

that we brought onto this land.

We stand to look at the waves

see the tides stroked by the moon

and feel the same motion

the roll, the rinse, the draw

perpetually repeated.

With eyes closed we list

involuntarily, primordially

toward the magnetism of the waves,

fearful that we can never return.

We, destined to scramble up the shore

two steps forward, one step back

must make this place our land

a new place.

 

 

© Graham Sherwood 04/2017

I can only draw them

listings, diagonal with dates beneath,

faceless names that tug my heart

 

William, James, Sarah, Charles

Mary, Ann.

 

No pictures, no weathered creases

searching eyes or family noses

indelible identifiable,

 

John, Harry, Annie, William, Elizabeth.

 

No memories recounted, visits made

habits mocked achievements scored,

names repeated, infant deaths, census scribble

 

Dorothy, Mary, William again, Margaret, Harry too.

 

The ones I met but didn’t ask,

didn’t make the time, unimportant then

no holiday postcards no box brownie snaps

 

Judith, Diana and me!

 

 

Graham Sherwood 04/2018