Sunday School

In the oppressive torpidity
of unseasonal February sunshine,
three overdressed tired old men
squat like fat budgerigars
on the overpainted wrought iron bench.

Like mothers, shooing away their young
they occasionally shuffle their Velcro feet
to discourage the encroaching fat pigeons
intent on a squabble
amongst last night’s fast food detritus.

One man a passive Attenborough
considers the irritating persistence
of the scavenging birds, afloat
in ketchup-bloodied polystyrene barges

A second enviously regards
the reckless lunging tackles
made by schoolboy footballers
caged within the abandoned tennis court

The third stares intently
at the young girl’s knickers on the swing
with the considered appreciation
of a competition judge.

© Graham Sherwood 02/2017

Bagatelle

Watch me spin and collide, tumbling
through the bagatelle of life,
sometimes floating serenely
my generosity lavishly dispensed,
before stumbling, without
the advantage a blind man enjoys
thrust into the suffocating darkness.
I perform with the casual urgency
of a ringmaster’s clown
flapping gamely,
an urgent paper message
lost, unnoticed between
the hungry spines of a drain.
So inevitably I plummet,
to land heavily upon the welcoming
silt of insignificance,
destined to stare back at the pinprick stars
named hope and ambition
and wonder why?

© Graham Sherwood 02/2017

Carillon

Our muddy boots kick up the
funereal reek of autumn's late demise
still festering under damp blown leaf litter,
prisoner to the webs, finger twigs and grasping briars.

We are stopped in our tracks,
a pedigree of church bells
arranged like raucous choristers
tumbles across the shallow valley
and shivers briskly along its watercourse.

This clarion water music
having chartered the freshening breeze
puppy-licks our faces
then clatters by like a schoolboy late for lunch.

As virgins, we sigh and greedily milk the notes
that squander wantonly between
three bowed willows that line the narrow causeway

It ceases suddenly
and we wait like mourners
blowing into our scarves
as if to rekindle embers
hoping for a repechage

© Graham Sherwood 02/2017

Migrant

I left without a second thought

it was time to go, eighteen and in love

the ties snapped easily, no backward glances

no goodbyes, handshakes, kisses

we didn’t do things like that then.

“Your sons and your daughters are beyond your command

your old road is rapidly aging”.

Near fifty years on

I’ve returned discreetly, stealthily, unrecognised

treading on familiar places, an archaeologist

in search of young faces from the past

I know I will not find.

“The changing of sunlight to moonlight, reflections of my life

oh how they fill my eyes”.

But I must still walk these ancient lanes

search out the indelible aromas

of my childhood, that have lingered, trapped

within the mortared walls, the bark of trees

at verges, in gutters, down drains.

“Ah, but I may as well try and catch the wind”

Latent life forces have drawn me back

to demand this duel, unfinished business,

paraffin, fresh bread, newsprint, coal sacks

chip paper, leather, cobwebs, Brylcreem,

corned beef, bleach, Double Diamond.

“Dance trees and a winter bird, fly home, we're here again, here again”.

I must be wary of becoming inebriated, light-headed

as curious locals cast worried glances,

a stranger! here? lost! hurry without checking their stride,

they see a splinter festering that will soon be gone

not knowing I will be compelled to return.

“And if a time comes when I'm feeling better I'll be back like the birds in the Spring”.

© Graham Sherwood 02/2017

(lyrics credited to Bob Dylan, The Hollies, Donovan, Blue Aeroplanes Kate and Anna McGarrigle)

Bottom End

Walk as far as the bend in the road
but resist the urge to look 
to the unseen
that will entice you.
Turn, look back
where your feet have trodden,
where trembling fingers
have brushed the warmth
of the ancient ironstone wall,
the music of your childhood
still echoing through its russet cracks.
The girl you loved and left
still sits watching
as you gather churchyard conkers
beneath the ha-ha,
her gingham frock weighed heavy
with polished fruit.
Listen for the timeless clop
of the milkman’s dray,
the raw clank and steamy bluster
of the ore tender
proudly crossing the ungated lane,
the smell of leather, the clicker’s whistle.
Everything is still here
rest assured,
the more the need to see
the less is hidden,
just turn before the road bends.

© Graham Sherwood 02/2017

Prune Tend Grow

Wallowing in the past
must surreptitiously please you.
You’ll achieve nothing
belly-aching or carping,
continually
looking over your shoulder
with an angry scowl.
Most people don’t give a fuck
about the so-called
outrages of years past,
they were most probably
shit for you, but
insignificant for others.
So do something useful,
build something, plan
for your future,
you’ve already ruined your past.
Stop looking through distorted
bottle dregs,
fresh air is free, breathe in
look forward.

© Graham Sherwood 01/2017

Bandwagon

Even the most fearless are fearful
so forgive their wanton bravado
deny their haste, quick tongues
and drooling mouths.
Revenge is the threadbare cloak
the fearless don to mask their fears,
anger binds their puerile lexicon
that once spent, subsides to  long regret.
So do not fear the fearless
for we are they and they are us!


© Graham Sherwood 01/2017