~

a first chance this year 

to sit outside in the 

timid afternoon sun,

the pungent smell of 

this morning’s freshly 

turned earth, the crack 

of today’s unread paper, 

and a glass of claret a 

fine triumvirate that

affords me a more

ambient atmosphere, 

with eyes closed 

a little imagination 

between the occasional 

inconsiderate cloud, 

it could be summer,

I’m already humbled 

by the sturdy crocus and

the gaudy daffodil, stout 

heralds of early spring,

I must become busy and

plant seeds into the soil

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/25

~

a weary daylight fails 

as it surely must as

another day is forfeit 

to the pervading gloom 

noises will quieten soon

and creatures of the dark

will dare to roam abroad 

it’s time for me to sit, 

consider what’s been done 

and what’s still left to do, 

to ponder how swiftly 

sped the hours from 

bed-rise to prayers

each one over in a blink, 

before tomorrow shows its

hand, that sly elusive thief 

set to steal another precious day 

*

(how time races away so rapidly)

© Graham R Sherwood 02/25

~

the smell is the first sense,

an agro-industrial aroma

impossible to describe

adequately, accurately,

then comes the weight

heavy or not it seems to

convey a sense of avid

impatient curiosity, an

inspection front and rear

serves only to compound 

the growing mystique 

but this spell must be

broken as the first page

is carefully broached,

eyes widen, lips part

and oh! the wonder!

*

(the sheer delight of new publication)

© Graham R Sherwood 02/25

~

here in my sanctuary

an unplayed guitar Buddha 

squats in the corner, 

its polished mahogany curves 

instrumental in swift seduction,

 un-hung picture frames too 

lean against each other like 

slices of toast, amongst some

un-read books that litter the 

floor in a chaotic mosaic in 

this very personal museum,

only the desk is sacrosanct, 

an oasis of order, nought out 

of place, dusted and sparsely

laden, an unsung reverential altar

to the curation of words

*

( a shangri-la of lethargy)

© Graham R Sherwood 02/25

~

at some point, along 

that slippery road  to 

redemption, 

there you are again, 

sprawled out on all fours,  

wondering 

where you fell short,

the same old ghosts are 

hovering there, 

shaking their heads, 

scratching their chins 

and pointing to the spot 

you came to grief,

others might pat you on 

the back and commiserate 

but I’m left thinking you may

be trying a little too hard,

redemption is 

a tricky business

*

(some try far too hard)

© Graham R Sherwood 02/25

~

I remember taking the photograph,

now rather grandly mounted in your

favourite Rennie Mackintosh frame,

it was a very lucky opportunity, your

reluctance being legendary, resulting

in so few appearances in the family album,

I find myself staring at you whilst

thinking and trying to write something 

half-worth reading and each time 

I am consumed with how, in the picture,

time is held in abeyance, with no hint

of what happened next or what occurred 

immediately before the shutter fell,

whilst I am pleased to have captured

your timeless beauty, I feel guilty that

you are trapped, a butterfly in aspic

*

(the timeless snapshot of a snapshot)

© Graham R Sherwood 02/25

~

February the shortest month,

long colourless hours to fill the

dull, dire, dreary days, 

the soporific dense heft of the sky

has thrown a monotone blanket

under which we unwittingly play

a passive form of hide and seek to 

while away the lethargy of the

dour unkind hours 

*

(February is unforgiveable)

© Graham R Sherwood  02/25

~

like water our mood 

reflects the pallor 

of the sky, be it an 

blue optimistic smile 

or a grey cautious 

hooded scowl,

like water time runs

easily through our

desperate grasping 

fingers as we seize

its threadbare coat

and vainly bid it stay, 

like water we give

buoyancy and hope

to each other, a mutual 

life raft to rise above

the waves at times of 

peril and distress,

*

( stay fluid, it makes sense)

© Graham R Sherwood 02/25

~

long-tailed tits are

already investigating the 

battered old birdbox nailed

onto the garage wall, their 

prescient optimism shames

our own reticence to make

an early start in the garden 

save for a half-hearted 

tidying up of slippery leaf fall,

it’s worryingly mild for February

threatening double figures

but could still turn evil yet,

I’m intrigued how capricious 

weather can have such an

effect on peoples’ habits,

behaviour and moods,

one tangible link we still

share with our neighbours 

be they fur or feather,

the willow and cherry both

shiver like bony fingers, 

pointing out a callous warning

should I venture outside

this early in the year,

I easily capitulate and 

settle for rearranging the 

essential detritus in the shed,

*

(weather!!)

© Graham R Sherwood 2/25

~

across the years, 

throughout a lifetime

my poetry has moved from 

giddy teenage love letters, to  

a considered, rear-view mirror, 

septuagenarian candour,

.

somewhere between these two

gateposts, along an unsatisfied path,

I seek the hidden signpost, a way

forward, clarification, reassurance,

a palpable ‘Camino’ for my soul,

and the hope of some redemption 

along the tortuous route,

.

at its threshold in the early years my

poetry could be naïve, fresh, flimsy, 

in the middle years it could be 

destructive, opinionated, reckless,

and during these later years, it

carries a burden, a weight of senile

expectation, a conscience, a duty,

.

across the years, towards the

sunset of a lifetime of verse,

the words may have changed, 

may have grown and taken on a 

persona of their own, 

although worryingly 

it’s an identity that no longer 

recognises its creator

*

(there must be a word for this)

© Graham R Sherwood 2/25