Our Perigee

(The point when two objects orbiting each other appear closest).

There was always the feeling that something might happen
This last year, your movements have been gradual but consistent,
your moods like the weather, difficult, capricious and unpredictable.
But when you shine, oh! there is a radiance where clouds are banned
and stars become superfluous for clear sight.
I saw you dance on the solstice, a pagan, gypsy temptress swirl,
moving ever closer, exerting a barely hidden mesmeric draw,
your youth forever beautiful, pert and daring.
My old eyes widen at the possibilities as you settle into view.
So there you are, beguiling me, naked and ripe
a fleeting chance to feast upon your nubile form.
Tomorrow I’ll be older and you younger still.


© Graham Sherwood 6/2013

Southwold

(Very old pearl of the East Coast).

My mother would have liked Southwold.
Seaside how it used to be, gentile, old money,
apart from the Aston Martins and the Bentleys
squeezed cheek-by-jowl in the off-prom terraced streets.
On the bank holiday, sun cracking the flag
she is breathless, wheezing under the strain
of yummy mummies, energetic Rafas and Jocastas
who picnic on her greens.
Come Tuesday, she is alone again,
a widow, abandoned, bereft and peering from empty windows
until the next weekend visit, with tea on the pier
carefully ignoring the Sizewell glitter ball
that fades into the approaching fret.

© Graham Sherwood 6/2013

Buzz

(A study in listening)

A numbing, soft, uncomfortable crush,
the white noise of night’s silence
that the brain tricks into an urgent wind,
a balmy tinnitus, a mausoleum
from whence escape is futile,
other than to further hostile desolations.
Alone in my shrinking room,
where even the reassuring monotone tock
is lost amongst this velvet hiss,
or thrust in the heft of the commuting faceless,
still the lumbering drone of spectral noise.
There is no such state as solace, silence, sanctuary,
just the near imperceptible swish of consciousness
from which we writhe, but none can abscond.


© Graham Sherwood 6/2013

Knights

(Little boys will be boys).

Such then is your magic world
of wooden staves and special powers,
for bravery, chivalry and derring-do,
each tree stump a task
each bridge enchanted,
so too the stepping-stones
crooked in the fathomless trickling brook.
You ride with knights
their shirts tugged out,
fresh bloodied knees
ripe ruddy cheeks,
who follow you
through direst scrapes
to Avalon’s halcyon throne
and feasts of biscuits, milk and rest.

© Graham Sherwood 5/2013

Serial Cereal

(The Sunday Papers).

Excitedly you await my arrival,
a child shopping with her mother,
to purchase this week’s packet of cereals.
The toy inside invariably disappoints
the stories and puzzles on the box,
whilst colourful are often similarly so.
We masticate the news of recent events,
amongst the tasteless flakes
of other people’s goings-on
which float like oil upon our own biographies
leaving recent dramas untold.
Is this the way we list our life?
Bargain basement cornflakes,
or should we display our issues
with the more expensive meusli
on the higher shelves.
Wherever we stand, we both know
when all that’s left is chaff,
there’ll be another box next week.

© Graham Sherwood 4/2013

The Topic of Cancer

(On the death of a friend).

Dark mahogany, tackiness,
the beguiling patina of old warm beer
lingers at our table like yesterday’s news,
it now appears we all heard simultaneously.
That ghoulish section, obituaries
we always head-to first, fearing the worst
sometimes relieved, more often saddened.
Fuck! John’s gone, fuck, fuck!
So now we’ve come together as we do
sat bowed like Trappists
in some badly rehearsed party game,
occasionally looking up
to throw unwanted questions with our eyes
before apologizing for the effort,
as they fall like John’s ashes to the floor.
Eventually our hooded eyes meet,
another one gone then,
with his japes and memories
still warm but filed away.
Those fucking manikins!

© Graham Sherwood 4/2013

Body Politic

(How power and position can destroy love).

This is miser’s meat, and
no banquet for a lusty soul,
when all along, with payment from a willing heart
better fare, shared
could have made a stronger love.
Once we both ate at Cupid’s table,
greedily pushing in the ruby berries
and seductive figs,
unashamed of our bloodied skins
writhing there, in such gluttonous ecstasy
we fell, sated, spent and gasping.
Now with fortunes changed
our insipid intellects intact,
breathing slowly, measured,
we crouch together face to face,
and watch our mutual grim-faced demise,
amongst the dwindling, starving rations of a love.

© Graham Sherwood 3/2013