How can I tell you, all the things inside my head? A poetry Journal
This village is silent and
yet to warm its stones,
our tiny restored chapelle
aches with an ancient torpidity
I feel I must be observant to,
the quietude, deafens, so
I invent an imaginary tock
a slow pendulous clock
that drops coins
into a fountain of time.
As the dawn vapours take leave
a distant rooster bellows
and hounds shake night fleas
off in the dust
Sundays are for hunting.
© Graham Sherwood 06/2018
Last week’s candles now look a sorry state, but
the tardy conkers will prize this rain,
I pick my steps gingerly, on and off the path
a carpet of sodden cherry blossom
subtle rouge stains, bleeding
into the darker puddles.
Ferns begin to unroll their tongues
eagerly licking at my bare shins,
the taller grasses also bathe my knees
leaving seeds that lodge between my toes
they itch mercilessly.
Three times a week
I take my usual rest on a sleeper bench
to scan the stream for the kingfisher,
this morning the muddied current
is swift, the sluices must be open.
I saw one once, just once,
last summer
a magical piercing flash
arrowing just above low water,
breath-taking,
so, I wait.
© Graham Sherwood 06/2018
I remember a friend telling me
of his trip to America,
parking in front of a diner
and being surrounded by
a gang of Hell’s Angels bikers.
Looking concerned
the waitress re-assured him,
don’t worry sir,
they’re all dentists
they come here every Wednesday.
I saw a chap at an open-mic
a right herbert,
tattoos, big hat, multicolour waistcoat
bad language,
spitting through his beard.
Off stage very popular,
obviously local, people offering drinks
signing his pamphlet,
hard to believe isn’t it
says my friend, you wouldn’t think
he’s the chairman of the bloody council
would you?
So, who are you?
Really!
© Graham Sherwood 07/2018
grahamrichardsherwood.co.uk 