id.

Upon death,

we become in spirit form

entities,

curated by the actions of our prior existence,

unseen, unheard, unnoticed, unknown.

Be vigilant, amongst

the bristling leaves of

a majestic tree,

the vengeful wrath of a turbulent storm

the comfortable roll of an ebbing tide,

the mesmeric crackle of a licking flame.

Be aware that

your spirit will mark you early

and tirelessly bide its time

for you to pass the mortal rubicon,

when it comes to claim

its rightful prize

quintessence.

© Graham Sherwood 11/2017

Octothorpes

justwriteproperlyffs

wheredidthisshitcomefrom

Imalreadypissedoffwithit

amItheonlyone?

nometoo

© Graham Sherwood 10/2017

Cranford Redux

Cowardly, I set off in the drizzle,
brief glimpses of the grey horizon
bleed onto the tarmac via the car's wipers
as I come to say my goodbyes.

Your charming cottage is now a hospital
a temporary bedsit
the clinical paraphernalia out of place.

Fate has cruelly sought to bring
a new grandson into this world
as you are about to leave it, but
with your typical farmer's daughter grit
almost spent, you endure, without
the nauseating medicines.

Comes the news and a newborn 
a beautiful wrinkled lad
a Caesarian  selfie
which we toast with weak tea and digestives
badly made by a good neighbour
which I notice you barely nibble.

Then the big surprise
you have been granted the honour
of selecting his name,
now carefully secreted 
in a golden envelope, Oscar-style,
one final loving gift from Ma.

For some barren levity 
I make humorous guesses
before all too soon
it's time to leave.

I kiss you one final time
bury my face in your pillows
brush your ear and whisper
my farewell.

I turn away
as from a beauty spot
to which I'll never return,
and phone a friend
to advise a visit
sooner than he had planned,
later I hear your secret choice,
one last memory of you

it's Leo

© Graham Sherwood  10/2017

Zen, and the art of Compost and Leaf Mould

There is little odour

save for the natural pungency,

of the earth re-breathing, warming,

flexing strength for the coming season.

A man touches soil in a special way,

like his own child,

raised, nurtured

not bought or borrowed

but that of his own creation,

nurtured for an age.

Crumbled between his fingers

it flakes confidently, ready,

so much has been transformed,

growth, death, metamorphosis

a new and vibrant rebirth.

This is not a young man’s toil

when time is fleeting,

challenged and confused,

no, it is for a gentle generation

that closes upon its own

renewal

© Graham Sherwood 10/2017

Cranford

Unexpectedly, shockingly
the news that you were dying
came to me cold as mutton
whilst I was still in France
waiting for a ferry home.

The early morning’s sky blue sky
still blotched
with the blue/black inky clouds
of night, billowing
from a full nib dipped into water.

Then the sickness came,
the awful gut-gripped nausea
at the unjustness of it all,
then the anger, the spiteful anger
useless to an atheist like me,
left unable to beseech the heavens
with oaths and obscenities
fired towards a callous god.

So, I am left here
as the calm waves roll towards me,
edging ever closer, heaving
then meekly consumed,
beautifully composed clouds loom,
I sense I too am on a journey
steering your craft towards Valhalla,
but instead I am left here
with the rest of your sorry friends
cheated and bereft.

© Graham Sherwood  10/2017