Thunderflies

In perfect aspect for the sun

the waist-high corn dry grass

crackles as we stealthily wade,

throwing up a firework display

of pale green grasshoppers

that pop into the air

in random arcs.

I’m bothered by thunderflies

drenching on my sweaty neck

and captivated by your lithe white legs

that carefully stalk, dressage fashion

through this wheaten sea,

the hem of your dress

skimming the feathered ears.

At the stream you are soon naked,

I sit next to your discarded clothes

now ignoring the thunderflies’ torture

intrigued by the curves arches and folds

your bathing body contorts into

stroked by the gentle ranunculus.

You bid me come, but

I must only spectate, to capture

this perfect moment that I realise is unique,

we will make love, for

this stream is indeed our rubicon

both realising things will have changed forever

by the time we journey home.

© Graham Sherwood 03/2018

Next Door X

Depending on the direction

of the wind,

usually a north-westerly,

a sickly-sweet aroma

of Weetabix would hang on the breeze,

dense and catching in my throat.

Never a favourite of mine

even less so

when our neighbour’s daughter

sporting a year-round candle,

dripping from her nose

succeeded in getting a job there,

putting me off for life.

Ironically, her father, later in life

was hit by a bus

tumbling over whilst recklessly

plucking cigarette dog-ends

from the gutter

near the bus shelter.

As children we would watch him

unfailingly press Button B

each time he passed the phone box

in the hope that some hasty

distracted user had left

four pennies unrecovered.

My sister sliced between two fingers

of my right hand

instead of the cottage loaf

she was holding,

I, first to the knife

unwisely picking it up by the blade.

With me bleeding profusely

we rushed next door for help,

our neighbour promptly fainted

at the sight of my near dismembered finger.

I cannot look at a packet of Weetabix today

without seeing his daughter’s snotty kisser

and his own crumpled body

slumped against the bus shelter

near our garden gate,

no blood.

© Graham Sherwood 03/2018

Prop

I watch you shoring up your father’s grief
a pit collapse, an act of spontaneous bravery
whilst waiting for the official help to arrive,
a frantic calm encamped around your sad eyes
masquerading gamely, taut as terror.

I haven’t forgotten your loss
your own crumbling cavern, where
carefully obscured, shuttered off
the falling shards pierce flesh unseen
weakening the mortar of your bold resolve

Hold on, I can hear the voices, see the lamps
albeit in the distant gloom,
you will be saved, carried into the light
the sweet air of tomorrow, but for now
press hard against your father’s chest.

© Graham Sherwood 02/2018

Widdershins

You were always one
to cut against the grain
kick against the pricks, or
dance naked in the rain,
ski off piste
row against a strong tide
sail close to the wind
the devil at your side,
push water uphill
call black out as white
put both hands in the fire
hide in plain sight,
but you couldn’t say I love you
without a wide grin
you couldn’t say I need you
share the trouble you were in,
so we all shook our heads
at your typical state
yes, we just raised our eyebrows
and now it’s too late.

Graham Sherwood 02/2018

For Harry O'Neill X

I was urged to follow the wind

it spills wantonly seeking all corners

with its blue/grey breath, capricious

but I know where I should aim for, so

I lean into the stinging squall,

one shoulder lower to barge down a door.

I can change this weather,

when it knows I am no longer afraid

it will relent, make peace,

I will make the dark lighten

dilute the soporific gloom

a fresher breeze will breathe life

not suck it out, then

I will straighten up, find a horizon

and intend my arrival.

© Graham Sherwood 02/2018