September

The harvest barley stands now in crooked stooks,
impatiently Vulcan waits and stokes his fiery forge.
Hark, Goosefair time approaches fast,
excited children pick the conker and the blackberry.
Under heavy sapphire skies young schoolgirls dance,
corn dollies jiggle from their belts.
As asters bloom, seven becomes nine,
And without a nod the stubble burns.

© Graham Sherwood

August

And so we rest and guilty take our ease,
within the butter yellow corn,
fearing that a listless solemn haughty August,
should stir from smouldering embers
and catch us naked in its swathe.
Like blinded furtive lovers lying hot and damp,
amongst the signal poppy crop,
seduced, we roll to face the pastel sky
and shade our eyes,
aware the reaping somewhere has begun.

© Graham Sherwood

July

An aging Leo, sated and replete
dozes long, in summer’s stifling torpid blaze.
And clumsy crane fly hop and clatter,
onto water lily landing pads.

Nearby young fearless Caesars play amok,
between the lifeless silent trees,
they swish the knee-deep larkspur’s
purple ruby bloom.

© Graham Sherwood

June

Untended, wayward tendrils
the honeysuckle rampant
grazes peeling paint and dusts the window’s frame.
Morning’s lark has long since flown,
and beauteous siblings two,
stretch to feel an early sun.
Juno, Hera both akin,
lay draped in silk and pearls,
around fat berries ripe, rose petals’ pink
and birdsong’s trill and on and on,
breathe life’s force through the flaming day.

© Graham Sherwood

May

Oh, this crushing heavy ache,
these long, long sleepless nights,
when all around is hawthorn bloom,
lilies and the nightingale.
Why must I choose, why?
between two such perfect maids
that come this misty morn.

Maia, fair bedecked in apple white,
her woven tresses kiss our dewy emerald lawns,
whilst cherry pink among the silver bark
rides Bona Dea upon her hobby horse.

Both come to dance the garland round,
Blossom-laden heavy, but lightly trip’d,
around the virgin pole, a ribbon romance,
To stir this erstwhile poet thus.

Why must I choose?

© Graham Sherwood

April

Afore the pious Easter church,
beneath its oak grey April lych,
a fool awaits his sweetheart there.
He solemn holds a daisy chain,
but eyes closed, shut,
thinks only of the sweet pea flower.
As next year’s ghosts scurry by,
to say a prayer this St Mark’s Eve,
plump raindrops wet the gravel schist.
They play a hapless sombre tune,
to cheer the bride that will not come.
Impassive stands the fool.

© Graham Sherwood

March

A fearsome battle looms
Early on this Martius Ide,
as Rhedam growls her callous breath,
a loud and stormy lion’s roar
that rips our throats, our eyes, our sense,
throughout these lengthened brittle days.

Sharp diamond eyes,
direct her icy phalanx down,
to break yet another bent and battered foe,
whom though defeated, stricken, lain
on harsh scrubbed sodden grass,
is neighbour to the newborn lamb.

© Graham Sherwood

February

So, comes my sublime beauty Februa,
She, of icy breath and eyes of amethyst
returns to pierce my heart once more,
to snub my pure, white, devoted love,
a capricious erstwhile valentine.

Cloaked in snow, with winged feet,
Stays briefly, still, to catch my gaze,
She deigns me kiss her pearly ring,
her only token left, a floral bed,
shaken brusquely from a snowy cape,
the violet and the primrose,
and she is gone.

© Graham Sherwood

January

January’s weak, unlikely wind, sneers
and growling back at yuletide’s indulgent frivolity,
scowls again, to usher brusquely in
the new year’s hopes, desires and fears.

And in that dour and clammy chill, Janus
with his ancient tethered clanking key,
hesitates, unsure which die to cast,
then scatters fortunes with ne’er a blink

© Graham Sherwood