Future Past

Alabaster wrists
lost on pure white cotton
garnet penknife runes
your anguish, mapped,
etched, left for me to decipher,
these are the hands I hold, I kiss,
conduit for all emotions,
so why was I not to know of this,
this butchery,
your final act of supplication?
My guilt now hangs heavy,
separating hope from harsher eventualities,
a Libran scale that teeters
precariously between oblivion
and loss.

© Graham Sherwood 5/2014

Seirene

Lured here and lost,
I hit the craggy rocks
and spill into the foaming waters,
transfixed,
your pure beguiling beauty
still busy in its song.

I scan for paths around me,
footprints fade in sodden sand
return implausible
if ever I have the will,
seduced,
amongst the foment's revelry

You hold a bloodied mirror shard
to show a sorry broken man
unrecognisable, unkempt, undone
who's wide eyes,
milky as dead fish
stare panting at your ivory feet


Graham Sherwood 05/2014

Outlines

If I peer hard enough
I can still see the impression of your body
a ghost amid the tumbled cushions,
and in the woven pattern of a table lamp
I imagine your shadowy features in profile.
An empty wine glass waits patiently,
I leave it there on purpose
and the shapeless knitting bag
wedged between the legs of the table,
like Bagpuss I used to say.
Your clothes and your scent
still hang and linger in the bedroom,
but it is here on this sofa
that your image rests.
I can see you, I make myself see you,
but I cannot hear the bells.


© Graham Sherwood 4/2014

H

One hesitates tentatively at each corner
for fear of what may loom into view,
the plethora of signs provide the clues
Surgical, Renal, Haematology, even Bereavement
are listed as we scurry past,
giving the impression that we are confident
of our eventual destination.

Then a powdery grey ghost appears
dragging sorry bones into view,
followed by her apologetic spouse
pallid, hopeless, similarly grey.
Mentally recoiling we improve our gait
but just in time to evade obesity,
an over-flushed apple of a man
sitting, nay wearing a mobility scooter,
still puffing as he whirrs toward the exit
and a much earned cigarette.

There is death here and we know it,
though carefully hidden
amongst the corners and recesses,
it waits to pounce upon the frail.
Passing groups stay huddled tight
none wish to bring up the rear,
always the one to be picked off first.


Then safety at last,
the grubby sanctuary of a service lift,
scuffed and battered stainless steel,
safe from the zomboidal claws.
We ascend to level two heaven,
bright lights, laughter,
Maternity, new life cries out
here among the dead and dying,
fresh hope within Pandora’s woes.
We search for Bea and feel ourselves re-born

© Graham Sherwood 2/2014

Lovebird

I threw you sweet words
as if feeding crumbs to wild birds,
from broad, square hands
their beautiful biographies etched and hewn.
Now your cackling howls of sarcasm
swirl around my ears,
like ravenous crows
dive-bombing my ego
intent on devastation.
I cower on one bloodied knee
rifling each pocket
for the mirror that will repel you,
if this is your love, you should see it,
in reflection
my passion, ripped carrion
under your fierce talons

© Graham Sherwood 2/2014

Valentino

Today is the day
Do you really love me then?
So say it damn you!

© Graham Sherwood 2/2014

Harrowden Lane

Local russet coloured stone tops our bridge
It crumbles freely as we poke the aging mortar
with the lethal jagged spears
of our chewed biros,
the blue/grey patina on the capstones
smudged with generations of penknife graffiti,
set out like family trees.

I’d forgotten the boredom between trains,
although I’m sure it never ever rained then
and how often we’d stare back along the lines
the perfect perspective
to the other bridge,
the village station
where our innocent mischief
would not be ignored,
“what you buggers up to”?
hence, we, all four,
preferred our bridge a mile away.

Those long hot, sticky summer days
We’d ring our eyes with cupped fingers
like curled leaf
binoculars, and stare like Jack Hawkins
into the distant shimmering heat haze
that we imagined to be fog,
sure as shit the Bismark would come
rolling spectre-like beneath our feet.

Bang on time,
if we’d had a clock we’d have known
a distant grey shadow filling the down arch of the station bridge.
Train, yes! train, bloody train
Steam? Yes bloody steam!
action stations!
Who’s turn?
take mine as well
and four pennies lying flat
like chocolate buttons,
tremble on the bristling line.
Up, and our heads dangle over the rough-hewn parapet,
first one to move is chicken.
A Brit, 70012
And John of Gaunt thunders through.

Derek is the chicken,
says he slipped
whilst our hot faces stink of steam and grease.
Sod it,
already got it,
underlined here in ink.
There’s no squash left
and only crusts with the faintest blush of jam.
“I’m off after the next one”.
And we three secretly conspire
to hold Derek above the parapet
a cruel forfeit to repay his dare.

© Graham Sherwood 2/2014