Murder

(The danger in nature).

black crows white sheets
orange eyes ivory beaks
grey slabs crimson blood
green spears brown corpse
yellow puss pink tongue
blue skies gold sun
black crows white sheets



© Graham Sherwood 04/2015

Up Marden

(A quiet week in west Sussex).

That evening stroll through badger wood
amid the aimless scurry and tinny cluck of pheasants,
May's green fluff adorning bare branches and
murderous ivy quenched on strangled boughs
hides busy late trilling birds.

We warily cross brambles that arch like green surf
cascading over ramshackle fences
to hike between the wide fingernail trenches
freshly clawed by a greedy tractor
lain perfect on flinty plough

We stumble on the tiny church, surprised,
book damp ancient painted walls, untouched,
silent guardians surround its mossy flanks
under a sombre yew green canopy
youthful names on ancient tombs.




© Graham Sherwood 04/2015

Petrichor

(Who knew there was a name for this?).


The first taste is with the nose
a cooling waft, not yet a breeze
confirmed by a slow licking of lips
and another long but gentle inhale
as if smelling melting ice.
Trees bristle,
but not in a warm way
almost shuddering
and the earth’s sponge flexes
making ready its scent
sensing intercourse
before rain comes.





© Graham Sherwood 04/2015

Stormfall

(Storms never cease to amaze).


The storm leaves much more quickly than it arrives.
In the distance, invisible behind our false horizon
it was announced, as if not to cause surprise
a low, throat-clearing grumble.
Bruised copper clouds spread like creased bed linen,
smoothed by an untrained hand,
no lightning, just a discordant moan
then the pregnant pause, silence,
before the mother of all raging explosions.
The interval always catches us out
and we cower briefly before straightening up,
a nervous giggle or smile hides our shame,
another crash louder than the last.
Good god
we whisper as unbelievers
but there is no more
and the snare drum tension
is replaced by a fresher tang,
a gift left, to remind us of our place.
Someone, somewhere will have died
but not here, not today, so
we pick up pots, sweep steps, wring out our ears,
the storm has left more quickly than it arrived
and we are thankful.




© Graham Sherwood 04/2015

Easter Haiku

(A woeful TV election debate).


Seven leaders died
crucified a day early
no resurrection


© Graham Sherwood 04/2015

Virtual Realm

(Has the internet become our parallel universe?).


This, the one true otherwhere
the fabled unseen world
a fibre-optic parallel universe,
that clever men have sought
to study, know and visit,
pondered on for many decades,
the kingdom of differing sameness
where good is evil
reality unreal
and identities change to fantasies
back and forth seamlessly,
where man can walk on water
look, move and not be seen,
become a prince, king or emperor
voyeur, lover, thief or beast,
unfettered, ungoverned
rabid.


© Graham Sherwood 04/2015