Sole to Soul

My beard itches as I ponder 1 Across
and subconsciously begin to stroke my chin,
awaiting your admonishment.
I notice spectral breath
on the kitchen bay,
a familiar handprint dissipates
occasionally badly stacked pans shift in a cupboard
through yet another sleepless night.
The stairs may creak one step behind mine
or a phantom chisk on the gravel path
keens to my ear,
sometimes a pencil, amongst the
scattered cushions I never use
and of course the voices.


© Graham Sherwood 01/2016

Thief

Circling like a cur
shunning our glow,

the music fades
to a faraway hum,

with belly to the earth
leering closer,

long dark nights spill
into morose mornings,

the stage now empty
actors gone,

thus disarmed
we bed,

no crowd applause
whistles or bravos,

that time is here
and before we wake,

January kills



© Graham Sherwood 01/2016

Zeit

Fragile
stilt-heeled, silver skinned,
one flash painted brow
shapeshifting
in an awkward, angular stance,
broken, reformed
re-broken,
museo


© Graham Sherwood 01/2016

Moment

I can hear you saying it
out here through the foggy nethers.

Where did he learn that from?

A simple line of words
well beyond his seven years.

Grandpa Bill
of course, that was one of his.

You stare long at the child
before looking up
skyward,

and I know you can't remember
when you last spoke my name.



© Graham Sherwood 01/2016