School Sports 1966

We young boys wait for our events,
and let our nostrils flare to breathe
the herbaceous tang of fresh mown grass.
Our hormones in an altogether different race
watch beautiful Rosemary lounging there,
her endless limbs lead to a neat seersucker hem
drawn right up to torment our cocks;
we are keen spectators for that flash of blue.
Along the lane lines powder white in distant parallel
our eyes are fixed on Susan’s perfect breasts,
soft cotton curves in tantalizing aertex rhythms
they rise and fall serenely as she hurdles by.
Then for a moment Leslie flies upon the Tuesday breeze
and plummets to the sand, her perfect bottom dusted brown,
her bottle knickers having disappeared somewhere,
we boys gasp as one and roll onto our stomachs.

© Graham Sherwood 4/2011

Goodwill

As you bathe in this infectious faux adulation,
the city streets awash with cheering faces,
remember mother.
Sold into the royalty trade, like some gentry slave,
a frightened rabbit set with the hounds,
always destined to be quarry.
But you have snared a fox, a wily spirit too,
whose diamond eyes are chiselled stones
that yearn for what?
And do you truly love her?

© Graham Sherwood 4/2011

Friendsbook

What strangely distant friends we are?
having never seen each others face,
heard a voice, touched the hand, shared a kiss.
Is your name real?
or just a clever camouflage, to hide your sex,
your home, your spouse, your life.
What is it that you wish to hide?
Then little pieces of your self slip through
in comments, questions, quips and thoughts
that slowly pull away the painted veil
to let me see the friend unmasked
by clever words, those very clever words

© Graham Sherwood 4/2011