Otherwhere

Will I know when I get there?
It could be a thousand miles from here,
or I may get there in a blink, and back again.
It’s a warm, small, dimly lit place, safe,
a place I think I like to be, or perhaps can’t help being.
I may go whilst on a train, or reading a book, in a queue, walking,
to simply become a chameleon, after all
why be one’s self?
Of course there’s no standing room,
beds are compulsory there,
I can muse with Socrates,
writhe with Juliet,
fight with heroes,
converse with ghosts,
when I’m otherwhere.

© Graham Sherwood 2009

The dust of life

Scatter my ashes at the shoe factory gate,
where the smell of new leather
sat light on warm weather,
racks of shoes with no uppers rolled by un-regaled
as I stood idly about
for my dad to clock out,
we bought cod, chips and peas for our tea.

Dash my ashes to the wind on Harowden Bridge
where great steam goliaths
thundered clanking below us
Scots, Jubes and Britannia’s spat steam in our faces
as we squashed on the line,
farthings two at a time
before Constable Moody appeared.

Place my ashes gently on the penalty spot
where for life’s briefest second
immortality beckoned
my dad dropped his fag and trod on his flask
as my late cup match winner,
made me late for mum’s dinner
I got drunk with my team in the Swallow

Sprinkle my ashes behind the bowls club pavilion
where I was first blessed
to hold my first teenage breast,
her tongue in my mouth and her hand in my lap
that parade-day night
when our futures burned bright
until Janet copped off with a soldier.

Cast the last of my ashes to the flow of the Nene
Where I first fished for bream
Amongst long bulrushes unseen
Impatiently awaiting the bob of my float
The smell of boiled wheat
In an Oxo tin at my feet
Immersed in the symphony of silence.

© Graham Sherwood 2009