Departure

(Astonishingly, I composed this a week before my mother died. She had a look of being ready to go somewhere and was exhausted by the preparations for the journey).

So you’ve left me then,
as I knew you would, at night
whilst I was sleeping.
Of course I tried to stay awake,
to wave you off, squeeze your hand,
tell you it would be alright to go.
But I let you down, for the first time
and now it’s too late to make amends.
So,
with just a morbid party to arrange,
that I for one surely do not need,
and they, all thinking that they’ve come
to say goodbye.
But I know you’ve already gone,
even though I missed the final kiss,
and a whispered last farewell.

© Graham Sherwood 10/2009

Forgotten Words

(Looking through some old memorabilia, this fanciful idea took hold).

A creamy, jaundiced, dog-eared envelope
just appeared there, in the bottom of a drawer,
its corners bashed like wrinkled fingers,
the flap unstuck, ajar and begging for an audience.
Words unseen for thirty-seven years,
caught beneath the perfumed liner,
now sadly parched and mottled brown,
but saved, awaiting life’s breath awakening.
The velum crisp and delicate as a baby’s skin,
a whispered crackle sound as tentative fingers,
tease the neatly folded leaf into the light,
succinct, your words in my ear,
I will.

© Graham Sherwood 9/2009

The Burdock Coat

(Difficult to describe, but this was a surprise greeting to some American visitors. Best to look up The Burry Man and all will be revealed).

In Midlothian where hearts run high
amidst uncertain August warmth,
they travel soon from far and wide
to laugh and blot their copybooks.

It’s time to change the kegs for sure
and light a welcome flame here,
come Jennifer and Joseph’s brood
the cloaked man draws nigh.

With burdock wrap and floral stave
hark to this ferry fair,
he seeks your evils to collect,
your ale to quench a thirst.

Whilst children hide their countenance
none heed his blackened gaze,
for every year the burrs do tear
cut deep in sacrifice.

So draw your nibs across the page
and write of happy mirth some,
in coloured inks scratch hurriedly
and do the bloody work.



© Graham Sherwood 8/2009

Yates

(Just pure admiration for a master of his craft).

The familiar stench of mudded reeds
and dew-fresh, herb sweet grass,
a most unlikely blend
with freshly brewing tea and dampening clothes.

Gun-metal blues and greys of a threatening sky
lay heavy, weighted on his bowstring slender back,
arched, stoic, sturdy as ancient cane
Slim fingers nurse the line’s deft pulse.

Sparse grizzled chin frames the candour of a wistful smile
and takes a somewhat tacit stroke,
as prizes dwell unseen beneath broad platter leaves
and forthright bulrush spears.

The timid crimson sergeants mill about unseen,
his patient eyes keep watch into the watery world,
as wicker creaks, once more the rod’s tip points
in knowing accusation as the master strikes.

© Graham Sherwood 2009

Love and Theft

It may have been the look, that I took, at the book
carefully hidden
amongst your clothes,
or the note, that he wrote, left in your coat
that you’d forgotten to throw away
I suppose.
Then I knew, that the clue, meant that you
held a secret
that both of us swore we’d never keep,
so I cried, tried to hide, fought the tide
of emotions that swamped me
so incredibly deep.
Since you’ve left, I’m bereft from the theft
of our love
wrestled from me without any warning,
In this mask where I bask, when friends ask
about you I say
I just didn’t see it coming

© Graham Sherwood 7/2009

Dawn at St Emilion

Quietude sits on these light baked blocks
of carefully hewn and riven stone,
where swallows dart and martins soar
about their dormant alley’s course,
cheered on by trilling morning birds
that sing above our sandals’ clack.

Underneath the overlapping biscuit tiles
of steeply huddled rooftops, squat
tight as armoured links,
the coffee brews and croissants prove
and this frail spell is ushered forth,
to shamble into morning’s mood.

The convent ghosts repose once more
amongst the golden riches of Bacchus trove,
beauteous vines that feed their flock
and keep their secrets loyally.

© Graham Sherwood 6/2009

La Tuilliere

Below us, early fodder in black plastic coats
shines wet like stepping-stones amidst the wavering stream of new seasons’ grass,
a languorous “brish” through healthy leaves
from quill-shaped poplars that bow and nod in breathy sighs to the south.
Unseen crows distantly squabble behind a copse,
as newly washed denims damply walk to nowhere on the sagging line.
Little fingers chase butterflies that skate like kites across the clover grass
haphazard to no clear destination,
all watched by suspicious frogs amongst the duckweed carpet of the pond.
Young fathers tease their boys with footballs
just as men have always done, and will,
in dark green shadow a lonely hammock rocks like flotsam near the ivy wall.
Red chequered tablecloths idly billow as the afternoon begins to warm,
left alone the pendulous rope-swing stops the hours
until the next excited child appears,
the timeless henge of olive-amber stones around the cooling barbecue.

© Graham Sherwood 6/2009