Reckoning Up

(Deathbeds and Dementia).


Tentatively wheeling and circling
like over cautious predatory birds,
my demons eventually pick their place
and settle at my bedside
to stake their claim and
barter for their treasure.


Without speech
I am nonetheless privy to their deliberations
and visit deathly glances upon their stolid
emotionless faces,
This is the long game then,
a jamboree of addled thoughts.


As shredded fibres yank and coil
rewired memories, facts and dross
all jumble into soup
stirred by the tarnished spoon
of my departing intellect.
The demons begin to delve.





© Graham Sherwood 03/2015

Tartan Beret

(The true beauty of youth).


Fat raindrops tumbling into slate-slick puddles
like dropped pennies, splashing.
Holding out your hat, upside down
the tartan beret,
you comically try to catch them
laughing, as if you could win a prize,
before emptying them out with a flippant shake,
all interest gone.
I watch you as your body floats,
perfectly, a sculpture brought to life,
moving through my astonished vision,
the trill of laughter, soprano
in such a beautiful storm.



© Graham Sherwood 03/2015