Fucked

I cannot make that sort of love anymore
not the sort of love you seek, need,
the sort of love young bodies make
violent, all-in, reckless selfish love.
No those days have gone for good
your young smooth flesh
a peach’s bloom
down amongst your sex
hair to your waist lashing out
my face your face soaking wet.
Now it’s feels wrong 
to ponder such a scene
to remember a young girl’s form
so eager, earnest, care abandoned
love masked as sex
insane unpunctuated fucking
that only adolescence may enjoy
I cannot make that sort of love
anymore.

 © Graham Sherwood 06/2018

Parenthesis

A father is a redundant lover
seamlessly displaced by his progeny,
(a blinkered provider, worker, 
absent for many of life’s milestones,
a time-poor spectator to growing lives
a parallel source 
of endless and unconditional love)
a hunter a gatherer of resources
a hoarder of unused love
destined to be reserved
and poured on the heads
of his progeny’s progeny
finally to become once more
an unconditional lover
circle complete.

© Graham Sherwood 06/2018

Reprise

You know that sort of mysterious dusk
when the paling blue sky of a warm day
becomes a tranquil sea
and the few clouds left behind
form south-seas islands or 
volcanic mountain ranges,
It’s then, with my good friends
cabernet sauvignon and merlot
that I set sail, the mild Levante on my shoulder 
to float above the tuillieres
steering my course westward 
and try to live this day over again.

© Graham Sherwood 06/2018

The Tyndall Effect, (why kingfishers aren't blue)

Last week’s candles now look a sorry state, but
the tardy conkers will prize this rain,
I pick my steps gingerly, on and off the path
a carpet of sodden cherry blossom
subtle rouge stains, bleeding
into the darker puddles. 
Ferns begin to unroll their tongues
eagerly licking at my bare shins,
the taller grasses also bathe my knees
leaving seeds that lodge between my toes
they itch mercilessly.

Three times a week 
I take my usual rest on a sleeper bench
to scan the stream for the kingfisher,
this morning the muddied current
is swift, the sluices must be open.
I saw one once, just once,
last summer
a magical piercing flash
arrowing just above low water,
breath-taking,
so, I wait.

© Graham Sherwood 06/2018

Koan on Space

Consider the humble ring doughnut.
Is the space in the centre 
a part of the doughnut,
or is it simply nothing at all?
Without it
the doughnut cannot be a ring,
so does the space really exist
and how does the space in the centre
affect the doughnut’s taste?

© Graham Sherwood 05/2018

Kings Cross

Steam no longer hisses here
save for the baristas churning latte milk,
no more crunching bogies grind
just the rasp of Javan beans,
no bouldering blue grey plumes
to avalanche the rib-arched span,
body odours, none of coal
save the chargrill smell of foreign grub
no crinolines nor travel trunks
no crisp-dressed porters doffing caps,
but ensconced within the parcel yard
a whistle blows, a thunderer, time to depart.

© Graham Sherwood 05/2018

Gullabaloo

Sinister gulls that have never yet tasted the sea
bicker and squabble in chaotic aerial combat
wheeling diving rising banking 
like wind-blown litter
scavenging the frozen peas, thrown for the ducks.
Their frenetic cacophony scratches the air
that retaliates with violent twists and lashes
blowing food scraps towards the reeds
and the grateful cowering waterfowl.
As the miscreants disperse unsatisfied
and the afternoon’s melancholy 
re-settles like a veil to pacify the lake
only the cartoon hoots and tentative trills 
of the water-born traffic
break the sultry humour.

© graham sherwood 04/2018