Not the best of weather to begin my Camino,

clipped slate clouds so low I stoop beneath them

their ominous jags hanging stalactite fashion,

there’s a stiff riffle of a breeze squaring-up

determined to push me back indoors.

 

my best intentions

fractured porcelain mosaics

my fortitude pierced

 

Threading gently in this dull malaise

wind-song charms my ears with distant pipes,

seduced I check my retreat, turn to meet the road

and stride south toward a promised sun,

seeking enlightenment, settled thoughts, clarity.

 

modern life strangles

my spirituality

creativity

 

The path becomes my blood brother

spilt red on red dust, as one, symbiosis

drawing me further on to find the pallid sun,

oak staff my compass needle, magnetized

by the much-trodden holy way.

 

thus, I am beguiled

my determination flies

campaniles ring out

 

© Graham Sherwood 09/2017

Immense cirrus streaks,

comfortably a mile wide,

span the big blue.

Phantasmagorical doves

pure white fingers,

like fanned flames,

frantic, flaring

overpowering us

we cower on the beach.

The twin tides are out and

Burgh, is no longer an island

so we trudge to the Pilchard

for beer, sandwiches and

a chance to gawp at

the Great White Palace

and dream of staying there.

Your heavy pregnancy curtails

anything more than a paddle,

knee-deep in the azure shallows,

soon we return to the towels, shaded

for your nap.

The late afternoon is gently

muscled into submission,

the chisk of early evening tides

vies for our ears

above the children’s frivolity.

Burgh Island sighs once again

and reluctantly draws up her skirts,

we bash our castles to dust

and head for home.

 

 

© Graham Sherwood 03/2018

 

Rabbit holes, narrow as a beggar’s luck

can be deceiving

dangerous to both life and limb.

In the winter they are bare,

tight drainpipes with ragged stone-clad walls

that whisper in a local tongue,

and run red wet

with the skin of travellers’ past.

Summer, in full camouflage

they conspire and constrict 

with hungry ivy lichen tendrils

that feign soft welcome,

to lure the hapless foreigner, with

tangling–aged signposts

 that addle and beguile,

never to be seen again.

 

 

 

© Graham Sherwood 07/2017

 

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

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

 

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