A poet's year

Apparition

And then, the imperceptible change of light
drapes my shoulders,
nestling like a virgin’s veil.
Its hazy, muslin, twilight patterns dance
before my earnest, narrowing eyes.
So, wandering and wondering
amongst the dimming creams,
and charcoal greys of dusk,
forty years just fall away.
He is here again,
and I know it’s time and turn to go.
But not before his ruddy hand taps lightly
on my sleeve, and strokes my neck.
“Time for home son, leave them here”.
And creels creak, reeds snap,
a distant whistle,
and I am alone once more.
The evening’s dampening aperture left
to heavily lie on my nostalgic gaze.

© Graham Sherwood 2007/8

New Year's Day

A grey veiled humour hangs on this New Year’s Day,
an unrehearsed pantomime I’m walking through,
wet hedgerows clipped, red berries broke,
squashed, scattered, lost amongst the uncut verge,
the dogshit and the broken glass.

As children scat down muddy slopes,
sodden wild clematis beards damply droop,
across the footpath and offer drips,
to bleary revellers as they stumble home,
in last night’s clothes.

© Graham Sherwood 2008

November

Glum, doleful moon, alone,
our only witness to such dreadful tragedy,
spies on deadly Scorpius,
chaperone to the winter’s chilling breath,
who, dragging slain Orion’s bloody cloak,
sweeps the crackling bronze crisped leaves,
like autumn’s janitor,
on this night all souls are blessed.

This bloody month, this killing time,
mischievous night, a fragile armistice
befalls us with our good clean ale
and hopper cakes,
astride our blinkered hobby horse
tonight, all are hallowed.

© Graham Sherwood

October

A grey dust bloom smears plump blue sloes,
fat rabbits and badgers sniff the damp and turn to go,
as nature’s balance rounds the leaves to russet gold,
so swallows, swifts and starlings gather to their fold.

Small children run and tease folk with their flickering punky flames,
now harvest’s in there’s time for apple-bobbing games,
the new wine, warm, tumultuous gurgles in the cask,
and newborn babies cry out loud as if to ask.

Wanes the opalescent milky cloudless afternoon,
ushering tired, marmalade sun to greet an early moon,
our tacky hands deep stained with blackberry blood,
we turn for home, with eager relish for our hedgerow food.

© Graham Sherwood

September

The harvest barley stands now in crooked stooks,
impatiently Vulcan waits and stokes his fiery forge.
Hark, Goosefair time approaches fast,
excited children pick the conker and the blackberry.
Under heavy sapphire skies young schoolgirls dance,
corn dollies jiggle from their belts.
As asters bloom, seven becomes nine,
And without a nod the stubble burns.

© Graham Sherwood

August

And so we rest and guilty take our ease,
within the butter yellow corn,
fearing that a listless solemn haughty August,
should stir from smouldering embers
and catch us naked in its swathe.
Like blinded furtive lovers lying hot and damp,
amongst the signal poppy crop,
seduced, we roll to face the pastel sky
and shade our eyes,
aware the reaping somewhere has begun.

© Graham Sherwood