iSight

(Observations in the January Sales).

I knew that you would be there,
somewhere
amongst the throbbing music
and glittering lights,
but at first I couldn’t find you.
There were old people, wearied
and many beautiful young creatures too
each flirting with their kind
but you weren’t amongst them
in their camouflage.
Then, as often in a dream
your apparition emerged,
no longer vague, formless
but bright, vibrant, intoxicating,
wearing all your Christmas gifts
at the same time.

© Graham Sherwood 12/2012

And Trio

Fate called whilst I was sleeping,
and took your hand
and tried to pay me with warm memories
and future fiction
in exchange for your company.

You were powerless to resist,
and looked to leave
and mouthed a feeble parting kiss
and held my trembling temple
with cold and lifeless fingers

Fate threw me a satisfied smile,
and hid you from my view
and mesmerized my thoughts
and lifted you to its breast
to sever the chord between us.

In the silence of the night,
and when two minds are better than one
and crackling leaves need kicking
and my wrinkled hand searches
I miss you.

© Graham Sherwood 12/2012

Mixed Blessings

He watches starlings darkening the sky in a flocking balletic curve
and with two fingers to his lips sends them his gentle benison.
She seated naked at her cello sends chords across the room
that brush his shoulders and shake the somnolence of his stance.
Without a sound the black cloud plummets to its roost, like death
there is no premonition only voids to fill and tears to shed.
As curtains draw, her notes too will sink to low esteem in melancholy
pale thighs embrace spruce shoulders and the languorous bow moans.

© Graham Sherwood 12/2012

Our proverbial sins

Your stitch is late
and I am lost,
the seam of my avarice
spills to the floor
with my heart.

And from my lifeless palm
the dove of wrath,
set free for further mayhem,
plots from the box
unblinking callously.

You, your milky tears
and useless pride,
are left behind to weep and sweep
the litter of my errors
like life’s janitor.

So where are those riches
that were promised you?
Sowed in the earth
with undue lusty haste,
and no sign of dividend.

Now richly sated, you
once the glutton for my love,
come timely late
to light my pyre aflame
with your licking tongue.

Blind foolish envy
is new currency for your loss,
I wait, to calculate my debt
to eternity’s account
abacus in hand.

My demonic choir is laughter,
performed with barren sloth,
cynical, thin, enduring,
to hex my empty torso
on each step to paradise.

© Graham Sherwood 11/2012

Tontine

Show me your ticket for the tontine of life,
where entry is free, the closing date long,
the winner takes a lonely prize.

Show me your ticket for the tontine of love,
where entry is hurt, desire and despair,
the prize thin as breath, a vapour.

Show me your ticket for the tontine of hate,
where entry is wrath, hostile and dark,
the winner can never be safe.

Here is my ticket for the tontine of death,
where entry is free, a brief rubicon,
the prize lies unknown, uncertain.

© Graham Sherwood 11/2012

Scandi-Verse

I gently squeezed my heggedal,
it felt firm within my grasp,
the benzy smelled of lemon zest
the afjarden fresh mown grass.
Standing on the toftbo
I rummaged in my skubb,
my besta had been scratched somehow
and needed a light rub.
I dusted down my ribba
and my stornas too,
you handed me your barbar
my arv I gave to you.
Feel these dittes you asked me,
do they feel alvros to you,
perhaps a little werna
but they do look good on you.
We both lay on the skarum,
my knodd lay on the floor,
you showed me where your pluggis was,
I fumbled with your klor.
At last we both were ekne
and blessed our gosa how,
with pressa and some mulig
We all love Ikea now.

© Graham Sherwood 11/2012

St Mawes

Five tethered gigs nod and bow,
carousel horses, tugging at their salty ropes
that rise, then dip into the flotsam,
like skipping ropes twirled by lazy children.
Scornful, gulls balance on these bucking prows,
and from time to time take irritated flight
only to return to station
each bringing a grumbling squeal.
The fret flicks across the harbour
with an unheralded slap,
the sharp edge of its tongue
catching us unawares.
A windswept busker, back to harbour wall
sends flamenco notes into the maelstrom,
a box of urchin shells
like shiny painted fruits
for sale offered near his feet.

© Graham Sherwood 10/2012