Grasmere

(The shifting aspects of Lakeland scenery).

Of course the hill does not move,
although the waking eye is fooled
to think so.
The pale slate backdrop slides by
from right to left,
a trompe d’oeil
that sends me back to bed confused.
Later three sooty trees silhouette
their veined fingers
as the picture turns to breakfast blue.
Distracted from a crossword and eggs Benedict,
I take another surreptitious glance.
Now, this pretty girl who doesn’t disappoint
is dressed in green velvet frocks,
she tantalizes me throughout the day,
resolute, not to move an inch
or look my way,
as each act of the day’s pantomime scenery
is wheeled past my eyes,
a vulgar cereal packet colour box.
Crushed, I later dress for dinner
and almost miss the teasing ripple
of her cowgirl rump
as she waltzes to the wings.
Exit stage right.

© Graham Sherwood 3/2012

Dark Room

(A comment on the hypocrisy of so-called multiculturalism).

We are not multi-cultural
neither you nor I,
merely atheist and zealot shackled,
singularly suspicious, doubly wary,
you of my painted skin
me, your voluminous robes.
I hear the barbed vowels that
you cast to the quickening wind,
which cuts to ribbons
my shell-shocked hospitality.
Quietly I show my bravery
by plotting your final days
behind thick oak doors, camouflaged
in sugary platitudes.
Remember what the common cold
did to the Martians, a generation ago.
Empires fall,
and our futile resistance
will then reveal your olive shadows
as nothing,
but paper shapes of last night’s
nightmare.

© Graham Sherwood 3/2012