Iris

I remember we met, almost colliding
in a doorway,
too close to be gallant,
your glance initially defensive
was framed with embarrassed irritation
washing over me like spilt wine,
at best inconvenient,
or worse
messy enough to navigate around with care.

Those young earnest eyes

orbiting in front of mine for days after,

morphing chameleon-like

cautiously adventurous,

then daringly fearful,

sometimes optimistic whilst expecting

nothing but trust from the echo.

Were it possible

for us to meet again

in fifty years or so, those eyes

would still be bright, tinged

with a schoolgirl naiveté, and

bristling with a knowing

that I’ve never forgotten

© Graham Sherwood 08/2017

Muesli Haiku

(One thing leads to another)



In my Zen like trance
whilst masticating muesli
seeds sown grow rich fruit.



© Graham Sherwood 08/2017

Breaking Fast

It’s a conversation killer
muesli for breakfast

there is no room for words
between the oats, seeds, fruit,
nuts and chaff,

so we glare at each other
like careworn cattle
masticating miserably.

How different the bacon sandwich
or the dripping fried egg bap,
those are happy breakfasts
impossible not to gossip
through the dribbling ketchup.

No, muesli spells melancholia
give it a wide berth.

© Graham Sherwood 08/2017

Ectovisit

It’s been a solemn summer
and a paper-thin bravery
has once again been vanquished
by my foolish curiosity.

So, I have haplessly returned
to search for my ghosts,
hoping to find them friendlier
torpid, malleable.

I find a verge to park
at the parish boundary,
my intention,
to walk into the village
like the hero-stranger of a
spaghetti western film.

This somewhat overstates my bravado,
so I button up my coat,
such flimsy armour that
I feel I may need this time.

I’ll walk amongst them
stealthily,
no car-borne voyeurism this time,
I’ll breathe their air
touch their walls signs railings benches,
ears keening for their ancient voices.

Pausing at the ancient heavy iron sign
I stroke and trace the village name,
the same is etched within me
somewhere deep.

A nostalgic waft of hand wrought leather,
portent from the past
curls its weightless fingers around my shoulder
as if to usher me to a vacant seat
thus, my séance commences.

It’s the dark childhood alleys
that hold most fear, oblique
secret crooked
a game of snakes and ladders
that delivers me all too quickly
toward lurking daemons
that besiege my destination.

Tumbling drunkenly through the
oppressively narrow
crumbling tunnels
finger-pointing flashbacks, paint-spatter
the graffiti of my youth
my meagre conquests
my many failures,
a seedy peeling role of honour
that is already too much to bear.

© Graham Sherwood 08/2017

Grey Economy

We steal small children,
the smiling old grey people
Papa and Ammar

© Graham Sherwood 08/2017