Glocean X

A man pointed to the water, 
nodded sagely and said.
“Two oceans meet there
off Cape Leeuwin, 
there’s even a sign”.

How foolish.

For water has no boundary
cannot be marked by any man,
has no shape no form no line,
knows not of the ocean
nor sea, river, brook or spring.

But man must mark his maps
draw his imaginary lines
control what cannot be tamed,
he is content
to point out to the water
and call its name.

© Graham Sherwood 04/2018

Lines X

I can only draw them
listings, diagonal with dates beneath,
faceless names that tug my heart
William, James, Sarah, Charles
Mary, Ann.

No pictures, no weathered creases
searching eyes or family noses
indelible identifiable,
John, Harry, Annie, William, Elizabeth.

No memories recounted, visits made
habits mocked achievements scored,
names repeated, infant deaths, census scribble
Dorothy, Mary, William again, Margaret, Harry too.

The ones I met but didn’t ask,
didn’t make the time, unimportant then
no holiday postcards no box brownie snaps
Judith, Diana
and me!

Graham Sherwood 04/2018

ClashX

You stop talking
the conversation ends
with the finality of a guillotine’s drop,
a clean decisive silence
leaving no room for doubt
it’s done.

Like Pontius Pilate
our hand washing commences,
before either of us withdraws
a defiant embarrassed impasse 
heats our faces, and
with perfect synchronicity 
we fade.

As I gingerly rake through the embers
careful not to fan the flames,
I search for reasons, causes, fault
but it’s useless
everything has been consumed
including hope.

© Graham Sherwood 03/2018

In-transit X

The old van has a bilious rumble tick-over
and an curdling kerbside breath to match,
a week’s papers litter the dash
which sports its own grimy plum-skin bloom
a week’s pack-up wrappers complete the tableau.
Three grey hoodies sit abreast up front
a coffee, a fag, the Sun
looking and feeling like the day
has callously caught them unawares.
The clean-me cartoon is on its way
to being submerged once again
and only three scratched hub caps match,
the other is in the undergrowth
on the slip at J13.
A paint job, the colour of old snow
Polar White
is caked in that new sticky shit
they put on the roads
to stop them icing over.
It’ll be fully light soon
already the sticky shit burnishes
the radiator in weak sun
and two of the hoodies
shift and rasp a fart.

© Graham Sherwood 03/2018

Beauty-Form-Vision X

Each individual piece of a life, is
cut, shaped, coloured, placed
carefully into a beautiful ordered
syncopated pattern, in balance
to please the eye and salve the heart,
life glistens, is healthy, contented, calm.

With the slightest breath
something moves the lens
a merest quarter-turn, less
so the scene fractures, becomes bizarre
disrupted, we are bereft, lifeless.

Life will adjust, re-focus to the new,
angles tuck and fit, colours swirl to merge
form fresh hues, tapestries re-hang
warmth returns, pulses slow.

Hold life’s kaleidoscope carefully
keep it safe.

© Graham Sherwood 03/2018

Collateral Damage X

You have such a latent anger
a furnace of swirling bile,
simmering, expectant
an ugly potion disguised by the camouflage
of past injustices,
stoked by a splintering ladle
upon which forgotten battles are etched.
I am too old
and my generation
learned a different tongue,
I bathed in optimistic waters
embraced the ebb and flow of chance,
my scars healed,
yours did not,
but once again
await their chance to spew,
erupting in the fresh air of opinion
darkening the skies, with
charcoal breath and choking
our fresh green shoots with cynicism
and shallow pathos.

© Graham Sherwood 03/2018

Love 2059X

We’ll never touch
even if you wish it,
the signals are blurring
the outcomes vague
reality slips to mere perception 
better safe than sorry, we say.

I have become weak, unsure
so distance is my safety net
I have desire, a piercing ache
but safely and sadly quenched
so not to draw attention.

This will be our union
notional, disparate.

I love you.

© Graham Sherwood 03/2018