Quietude sits on these light baked blocks
of carefully hewn and riven stone,
where swallows dart and martins soar
about their dormant alley’s course,
cheered on by trilling morning birds
that sing above our sandals’ clack.
Underneath the overlapping biscuit tiles
of steeply huddled rooftops, squat
tight as armoured links,
the coffee brews and croissants prove
and this frail spell is ushered forth,
to shamble into morning’s mood.
The convent ghosts repose once more
amongst the golden riches of Bacchus trove,
beauteous vines that feed their flock
and keep their secrets loyally.
© Graham Sherwood 6/2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
La Tuilliere
Below us, early fodder in black plastic coats
shines wet like stepping-stones amidst the wavering stream of new seasons’ grass,
a languorous “brish” through healthy leaves
from quill-shaped poplars that bow and nod in breathy sighs to the south.
Unseen crows distantly squabble behind a copse,
as newly washed denims damply walk to nowhere on the sagging line.
Little fingers chase butterflies that skate like kites across the clover grass
haphazard to no clear destination,
all watched by suspicious frogs amongst the duckweed carpet of the pond.
Young fathers tease their boys with footballs
just as men have always done, and will,
in dark green shadow a lonely hammock rocks like flotsam near the ivy wall.
Red chequered tablecloths idly billow as the afternoon begins to warm,
left alone the pendulous rope-swing stops the hours
until the next excited child appears,
the timeless henge of olive-amber stones around the cooling barbecue.
© Graham Sherwood 6/2009
shines wet like stepping-stones amidst the wavering stream of new seasons’ grass,
a languorous “brish” through healthy leaves
from quill-shaped poplars that bow and nod in breathy sighs to the south.
Unseen crows distantly squabble behind a copse,
as newly washed denims damply walk to nowhere on the sagging line.
Little fingers chase butterflies that skate like kites across the clover grass
haphazard to no clear destination,
all watched by suspicious frogs amongst the duckweed carpet of the pond.
Young fathers tease their boys with footballs
just as men have always done, and will,
in dark green shadow a lonely hammock rocks like flotsam near the ivy wall.
Red chequered tablecloths idly billow as the afternoon begins to warm,
left alone the pendulous rope-swing stops the hours
until the next excited child appears,
the timeless henge of olive-amber stones around the cooling barbecue.
© Graham Sherwood 6/2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
Otherwhere
Will I know when I get there?
It could be a thousand miles from here,
or I may get there in a blink, and back again.
It’s a warm, small, dimly lit place, safe,
a place I think I like to be, or perhaps can’t help being.
I may go whilst on a train, or reading a book, in a queue, walking,
to simply become a chameleon, after all
why be one’s self?
Of course there’s no standing room,
beds are compulsory there,
I can muse with Socrates,
writhe with Juliet,
fight with heroes,
converse with ghosts,
when I’m otherwhere.
© Graham Sherwood 2009
It could be a thousand miles from here,
or I may get there in a blink, and back again.
It’s a warm, small, dimly lit place, safe,
a place I think I like to be, or perhaps can’t help being.
I may go whilst on a train, or reading a book, in a queue, walking,
to simply become a chameleon, after all
why be one’s self?
Of course there’s no standing room,
beds are compulsory there,
I can muse with Socrates,
writhe with Juliet,
fight with heroes,
converse with ghosts,
when I’m otherwhere.
© Graham Sherwood 2009
Sunday, May 17, 2009
The dust of life
Scatter my ashes at the shoe factory gate,
where the smell of new leather
sat light on warm weather,
racks of shoes with no uppers rolled by un-regaled
as I stood idly about
for my dad to clock out,
we bought cod, chips and peas for our tea.
Dash my ashes to the wind on Harowden Bridge
where great steam goliaths
thundered clanking below us
Scots, Jubes and Britannia’s spat steam in our faces
as we squashed on the line,
farthings two at a time
before Constable Moody appeared.
Place my ashes gently on the penalty spot
where for life’s briefest second
immortality beckoned
my dad dropped his fag and trod on his flask
as my late cup match winner,
made me late for mum’s dinner
I got drunk with my team in the Swallow
Sprinkle my ashes behind the bowls club pavilion
where I was first blessed
to hold my first teenage breast,
her tongue in my mouth and her hand in my lap
that parade-day night
when our futures burned bright
until Janet copped off with a soldier.
Cast the last of my ashes to the flow of the Nene
Where I first fished for bream
Amongst long bulrushes unseen
Impatiently awaiting the bob of my float
The smell of boiled wheat
In an Oxo tin at my feet
Immersed in the symphony of silence.
© Graham Sherwood 2009
where the smell of new leather
sat light on warm weather,
racks of shoes with no uppers rolled by un-regaled
as I stood idly about
for my dad to clock out,
we bought cod, chips and peas for our tea.
Dash my ashes to the wind on Harowden Bridge
where great steam goliaths
thundered clanking below us
Scots, Jubes and Britannia’s spat steam in our faces
as we squashed on the line,
farthings two at a time
before Constable Moody appeared.
Place my ashes gently on the penalty spot
where for life’s briefest second
immortality beckoned
my dad dropped his fag and trod on his flask
as my late cup match winner,
made me late for mum’s dinner
I got drunk with my team in the Swallow
Sprinkle my ashes behind the bowls club pavilion
where I was first blessed
to hold my first teenage breast,
her tongue in my mouth and her hand in my lap
that parade-day night
when our futures burned bright
until Janet copped off with a soldier.
Cast the last of my ashes to the flow of the Nene
Where I first fished for bream
Amongst long bulrushes unseen
Impatiently awaiting the bob of my float
The smell of boiled wheat
In an Oxo tin at my feet
Immersed in the symphony of silence.
© Graham Sherwood 2009
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Losing you
Your paper boat of a life embarks,
setting sail into the captive sea
of forgetful mist.
As you wave from the creaking rail,
those frown-crowned ripples of recognition,
blink ever more slowly as I stand to leave.
The signal horn of yet another year blasts,
as you slide away from anchorage
beneath a feeble bony wave.
I’ll linger on this bereft lonely quay,
and peer into your enveloping gloom
call out my name, it’s me, still here.
© Graham Sherwood 2009
setting sail into the captive sea
of forgetful mist.
As you wave from the creaking rail,
those frown-crowned ripples of recognition,
blink ever more slowly as I stand to leave.
The signal horn of yet another year blasts,
as you slide away from anchorage
beneath a feeble bony wave.
I’ll linger on this bereft lonely quay,
and peer into your enveloping gloom
call out my name, it’s me, still here.
© Graham Sherwood 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
Atheist's nightmare
Sorry did I wake you?
Oh! It’s you, but you’re……the accident,
Dead, yes I know, I’m sorry.
Sorry, what for?
That I won’t be around to look after you any more.
I hear you but I can’t see you properly.
I know, it’s just the way it is there,
I’m neither one thing nor the other for the minute,
everything is white, no shade, no form,
a sort of filled-in outline with no features.
Is it heaven then or the other place?
I don’t know yet, I haven’t been allowed inside,
it’s the system,
I just have time to make things right here,
Before I go, so to speak.
Can I touch you one last time then?
Well, only in the way that you can touch a light shower say,
or feel a breath on your neck.
How long can you stay for? Long?
No not really, only long enough to say
I love you, but you knew that,
more importantly
never forget me.
I’m sorry I’ve got to go
time’s up the bell is ringing.
Are you OK?
Yes of course, why?
You were ranting rarely last night,
and you slept right up to the alarm.
You kept saying I love you, I love you
and never to forget.
I hope you were dreaming about me
©Graham Sherwood 2009
Oh! It’s you, but you’re……the accident,
Dead, yes I know, I’m sorry.
Sorry, what for?
That I won’t be around to look after you any more.
I hear you but I can’t see you properly.
I know, it’s just the way it is there,
I’m neither one thing nor the other for the minute,
everything is white, no shade, no form,
a sort of filled-in outline with no features.
Is it heaven then or the other place?
I don’t know yet, I haven’t been allowed inside,
it’s the system,
I just have time to make things right here,
Before I go, so to speak.
Can I touch you one last time then?
Well, only in the way that you can touch a light shower say,
or feel a breath on your neck.
How long can you stay for? Long?
No not really, only long enough to say
I love you, but you knew that,
more importantly
never forget me.
I’m sorry I’ve got to go
time’s up the bell is ringing.
Are you OK?
Yes of course, why?
You were ranting rarely last night,
and you slept right up to the alarm.
You kept saying I love you, I love you
and never to forget.
I hope you were dreaming about me
©Graham Sherwood 2009
Loose lines
Memories and un-forgiven promises
are graffiti drawn like abandoned conclusions
clinging to and leering from the shiny bricks
of yesterday’s youth.
As I spill my feelings like cold tea
into your clean sink
I feel sorrow for the mess
but don’t think to cleanse it.
We could have both died young
together, beautiful, exciting
with much love still to make.
Did you think me special, as I you?
I wonder.
© Graham Sherwood 2009
are graffiti drawn like abandoned conclusions
clinging to and leering from the shiny bricks
of yesterday’s youth.
As I spill my feelings like cold tea
into your clean sink
I feel sorrow for the mess
but don’t think to cleanse it.
We could have both died young
together, beautiful, exciting
with much love still to make.
Did you think me special, as I you?
I wonder.
© Graham Sherwood 2009
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