Green Park Eleven

(A particularly warm and sunny April afternoon stroll through Green Park
in London offered too many images to ignore. This observation followed).

The crocus have fled and the daffodils gone,
bereft, just the dandelion gold lingers on,
a tame squirrel tugs at the creased trouser legs
of beautiful girls strewn like discarded pegs,
on tattersall rugs on the damp summer turf
their bleached Sunday newspapers billow like surf
bringing whispered languages foreign to me
from passionate lovers beneath every tree
this afternoon stroll a surreal postcard scene
of picnics and lovers and melting ice cream
under clear silent skies of azure, replete
from a bough the squawk of a lost parakeet
strange, here, amidst the capital’s special place
but there’s hardly surprise on anyone’s face

© Graham Sherwood 4/2010

Otis cries

(Funerals are never very inspiring occasions and the sudden death of a
dear next door neighbour was tremendously stressful for all concerned.
However, from the density of the hushed congregation little baby Otis
spoke for us all).

I have never known so many shades of black,
each stand immobile in uncomfortable resignation
to await the sombre arrival of Norma’s box,
silently gliding by
the preposterously long shiny car, black of course.
Of course there are tears, and tears make more tears,
all sorry sadly for themselves,
strangers who are strangely old friends
here to say goodbye and eat the vol-au-vents
the gujons and the dips,
all served so bloody cold, deathly cold.
Bare three weeks old with music to his name,
Otis calls a plaintive wail to Grandma,
a flimsy chord of life amongst the dead,
we are shamed and dab our tears.

© Graham Sherwood 4/2010