Hay

A old grocer’s bell,
then a silent fart of cobwebbed breath
crawls through the cracks of flaking plaster,
leaving nothing,
to disturb the sombre tock of three o’clock,
that neatly sliced portion,
sour quarter of the afternoon
set out as afternoon tea between the mildewed tomes.
Here heroes lay,
their ears foxed by marbled paper rainbows,
their perilous lives now flit in passive glimpses, moments,
no time to either take a bow or any other accolade.
Heroes need danger, a foe, a nemesis,
a reason for the polished sword or loaded gun.
Here there’s none, save the stealth of warmly muttered sighs

© Graham Sherwood 8/2012

Re-Pose

(An observation of beauty).

You lie on the sofa with the effortless elegance
of a fin de siècle Duchess,
bare feet up, crossed, like a vicar’s calm hands at prayer.
Even the stripes on your untied dressing gown
slope perfectly, draping down
as liquor running from the upturned bottle onto the floor.
The untidy newspaper fails to crackle in your hands,
whilst you read with a considered finger resting atop your lip
as if choosing a delicacy from an offered box.
Occasionally an un-deciphered comment is allowed its flight,
only to fall short, exhausted, halfway across the rug.
Picasso might have placed you there
but I have not the inclination or the talent
to do you justice .

Boathouse

(The subject of a dream 03.03am)

I chose the Boathouse or should I say it chose me.
Perfectly planked, varnished to a silky touch,
more cricket pavilion with the legs of a stork,
motionless, amongst the river’s margin.

At dawn, with fresh coffee on the verandah,
three shapes emerge from the reedy mist
grey bobbing leathery seals, abreast,
police frogmen, wading from the gloom.

“Child lost upstream, a mile or so”. Terse.
“They usually come this way”. Resigned.
“How can you do a job like this”. Incredulous.
“the secret is, not to look them in the eye”. Wearied.

Throughout the day, mooring ropes creak
and the lazy river slaps dumbly
on the weatherboards.
a mother’s gentle tap, asking baby politely for wind.

I found the child, or should I say she found me.
at 4pm,
a timid knocking on the slipway rail
as if calling round for tea.

Just her auburn crown floating,
an Ophelian bedraggled mist.
I scooped her up, taking care not to turn her over,
a little ragdoll princess from Elsinore.

Front Page

(Comment on Marie Colvin)

You stayed to tell me a story
fearless or foolish, braveheart or banale
you knelt at the sacrificial altar
a big mistake.
So the needy stay forgotten
the desperate still forlorn
and limb-strewn rubble commonplace
to the eyes of the world
now distracted
to follow the story of you.

Grisaille

(The inability to recall dreams).

Wednesday yawns, and the call to sleep,
to rinse the once fast colours of my memories
that history feints to vague affairs.
Who was that beauteous girl
who ran like the fawn, quink on her fingers,
who smelled of cold toast?
Alas gone, forever
dancing through the flimsy leaves
in a Morphean maze of tangled veils,
no footprints left
my brief ecstacy turned to loss,
no evidence caught as lambs wool on a briar,
tumultuous pleasure at such costly price.
I wake, full knowing of the robbery
but cannot list my loss.

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