A poet's year

This perfect time

Could there really be a finer hour,
than on this autumn Sunday close to three,
his tiny fingers grip my dangling hand,
and rhythmic slumber sends a reassuring hum.
As pastry smells idly pervade the room,
they tell us both that dinners’ nearly come,
soft lilting classics weigh my eyes and fill my doze,
a favoured book, slips to the floor, still unread.
Thus roused I take a final cherished sip of red,
and stroke our silent knowing dog
who guards the cot with constant eye,
at this perfect time

© Graham Sherwood 2006

Apparition

And then, the imperceptible change of light
drapes my shoulders,
nestling like a virgin’s veil.
Its hazy, muslin, twilight patterns dance
before my earnest, narrowing eyes.
So, wandering and wondering
amongst the dimming creams,
and charcoal greys of dusk,
forty years just fall away.
He is here again,
and I know it’s time and turn to go.
But not before his ruddy hand taps lightly
on my sleeve, and strokes my neck.
“Time for home son, leave them here”.
And creels creak, reeds snap,
a distant whistle,
and I am alone once more.
The evening’s dampening aperture left
to heavily lie on my nostalgic gaze.

© Graham Sherwood 2007/8

New Year's Day

A grey veiled humour hangs on this New Year’s Day,
an unrehearsed pantomime I’m walking through,
wet hedgerows clipped, red berries broke,
squashed, scattered, lost amongst the uncut verge,
the dogshit and the broken glass.

As children scat down muddy slopes,
sodden wild clematis beards damply droop,
across the footpath and offer drips,
to bleary revellers as they stumble home,
in last night’s clothes.

© Graham Sherwood 2008