~

I’ve always been early to rise

even in those teenage years 

when I was madly in love and 

hadn’t been to bed for more 

than a couple of hours before 

my usual 4am Sunday start,

jobs in the village were like

hen’s teeth in those days

so, an hour each morning

before school and a long

Sunday morning delivering 

Milk through the village was 

a well fought for prize,

I worked for milkman Len

whose float, in my very 

early days, was drawn by

a horse, two Dutch barge dogs

Keeshonds I think, walked

either side like outriders

stopping alongside at the

right places in each street,

Sunday mornings were quite

surreal as once the float, a

three-wheeled early electric 

version, was loaded up, 

first stop would be Len’s

house for 5am tea and toast,

his wife would always seek 

to mother me with extra slices,

a vivid soundtrack to these 

dark Sunday mornings was 

the wireless, permanently

tuned to classical music, I listened

to Beethoven Liszt et al whilst

incessantly picking dog hairs 

from my clothing, peculiarly 

I always looked forward to 

this brief recital in her dimly

lit kitchen in what felt like the 

middle of the night

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/25

~

I wake up with the house

at 5am, or thereabouts,

it exhales a good morning 

from the back bedroom

with a yawning crack,

ten minutes later a reply

eases from an under stairs

cupboard, a languorous

haunted gentle creak,

at this cold time of year 

the heating crackles into

a noisy cough at 6am,

my poetry brain tries to 

rise to this early challenge

as words tumble out 

from the darkness, taunting 

me to let them fly uncaptured,

I scribble hurriedly, illegibly, 

hoping my spidery hieroglyphs 

are at least decipherable

come breakfast time,

who knows?

*

© GRS 3/25

~

the thin wire fence beside 

the track would bristle and

sing long before a steam train 

came into view and through 

the billowing tumult of steam

I learned about the geography 

of the commonwealth,

engines with evocative names 

that required an atlas to find, 

my first introduction to foreign 

travel albeit in my mind’s eye,

Sarawak to Saskatchewan

Palestine to Punjab, my young 

imagination on fire as I ‘copped’ 

a new place name every day,

history lessons too, served

up by the armies that marched 

by whistling under our bridge 

regiment by regiment 

The Green Howards, The Welch, 

and my very own battallion the

Sherwood Foresters and

home county warriors the

Northamptonshire Regiment,

historical figures also thundered

through my summer days,

John of Gaunt, Owen Glendower

Hereward the Wake each one

eager to tell me their story,

those times all sadly long gone,

timeless hours, endless days

being taught without teachers 

learning without boundaries

my best ever days, a boys’ own

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/25

~

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