On the Level

Land borrowed from nature’s benefice,

watched keenly from the Isle of Frogs,

to distant Isle of Glass.

From time to time

burtles breach the floods

like basking whales

when banks and reens

and clyses all fall short,

I scan the bristling ripples

for signs of life

and must wait.

© Graham Sherwood 01/2018

4am

It’s 4am, a slim lady, well-dressed
falls from the deck of a cruise liner
far out at sea.

Somewhat luckily, an illusionist
dressed all in black, already in the water
rescues her and takes her
to the shallows of an ornamental lake
surrounded by a crescent-shaped multi story hotel.

He insists on removing and retaining
her black cardigan
before swimming back out to sea.

From a high balcony in the hotel
a well-known television presenter
considers rescuing the garment.

The cardigan has become a Japanese calligraphy paintbrush
with which the illusionist is writing the words
Imagine This
clearly in the water.

The sea is gentle but with significant rolling waves
but the words stay fixed fast in the water.

In the middle of this ocean
from the vantage point of a contorted bough of a leafless tree
the illusionist looks down and considers his work
thinking to himself
How am I doing this?

© Graham Sherwood 01/2018

Again and again and again!

There’s ice on the stairs again
and a chill in my heart
I ache in the head again
as you set to depart,
you’ve burnt out my eyes again
with your withering stare
I’m scorched, charred and black again
blind, naked and bare,
you say we’ll converge again
that our pathways will meet
should our senses collide again
along the same street,
I’d be a fool to believe again
to follow your chart
there’s ice on the stairs again
a deep crack in my heart.

© Graham Sherwood 01/2018

Tansaku

in search of kigo
I thumb through the sajiki
thus kidai is found

© Graham Sherwood 01/2018

Abracadharma

Bathe within myriad vaporous influences

embalmed within, salved without

endless ethereal particles

motes that never make landfall

each holding the word,

to transform and purify our attitudes

to light the way, our

customs, nature, morals, justice, duty

the magic of the cosmos

our sentient space.

© Graham Sherwood 01/2018

Cranford Finale

The impenetrable kernel, the unfathomable knot
buried in the pit of our stomachs
at last emits a long silent exhale
whispering the news of your death.

In truth, you said your farewells long ago
and we have merely watched your shadow
reduce and fade to the horizon,
thus, transfixed, we continue to watch, to scan,
expecting your craft to re-appear
with new exotic gifts

© Graham Sherwood 01/2018

'69

I’m courting, growing up,
a Jean Shrimpton lookalike on my arm
punching well above my weight.
but halfway along Hawthorne
scene of many a schooldays I-Acky 123
or British Bulldog rough and tumble
I pause to stifle a silly smile.

We turn down Mulso,
through the alley to
skirt the top of the rec,
across Summerlee past Patterson’s Farm
where scrumping was easy
then down through the old quarry.

I stare up at Devil’s Tooth
and wonder why we ever thought
standing there
with trembling knees
that it was Everest
in 1959
one of us pissed ourselves
it’s still a secret.

Up onto the cornfield, tall, dense
like the Shredded Wheat advert,
I hadn’t got a clue what to do at first
then you were naked
on the flattened stalks
and everything seemed to fall into place,
our Summer of ‘69

© Graham Sherwood 12/2017

White Lights

Unlike the old days

nobody waits until twelfth night

to take their illuminations down anymore

once the doings are over.

Angus took his snow projector down smartish

after his reindeer were pinched last year

and Harry dismantled his scrolling Merry Christmas

on the twenty-eighth

Janice told him to, no arguing

and Sid's icicles spent more time off than on!

Reluctantly, mine are coming down today

one day early, so not too bad, although

I’d always thought it was supposed to be bad luck

but we’ve got the boy’s dog tomorrow

so, it’s a no-brainer.

That just leaves old Derek.

We were all surprised

that he’d bothered this year,

with Brenda gone, and quite recently too,

I’d joke every year that his single string

of garish multi-coloured bulbs looked more like a pub.

Come to think of it

I haven’t seen Derek for a few days

have you Jeff?

© Graham Sherwood 01/2018

Taste the Day

Go outside
face each morning
no matter the weather
keen in one long inhale, slowly
and taste the day.

If it’s freezing cold, dry
nose-stinging, chilly,
there’s clean mint, a menthol tang
to lick the mouth from within,
scouring ruddy cheeks
and tapping peppermint tunes upon teeth.

In brilliant sunshine,
those few smooth,
but languid torpid days
that stretch as soft toffee,
and taste of buttered lemons,
sweet sticky afternoons that meander
dribbling from one’s chin.

Mysterious thick creamy fog
pronounces the flavour of cheese,
unfathomable density
ripe, firm and cautious,
a lingering moisture-filled paste
lays heavy on the tongue.

But rain, its heavy thick-fat droplets
sting the senses with metallic shards
smoke, salt and tar, Barolo wine amongst
the grateful flowerheads.

Go out, go out and taste the day
go out and drink it in
long floral draughts,
bathe in the morning’s feast.

© Graham Sherwood 01/2018