Finedon Mill

There’s the lightest frisson,
a gentle breeze, caught up
and nudged by the threat
of an approaching storm
to shake lacework ripples
across the millpond’s placid face.

Once spent the bobbing lilies
slowly come to rest, so dapping flies
may once more tap dance
on the settled spreading pads.

Watched by a bowed but proud straw man
aged branches creak and wheeze,
beech leaves whistling their worried trill
unsure the storm is satisfied.

© Graham Sherwood 06/2017

Vox

we choose,
some lose
young old,
weak bold
colours pall,
fortunes fall

care less,
reap mess
woman man,
also-ran
colours shift,
fortunes drift

weather storm,
regain norm
recriminations,
action stations
colours tally,
fortunes rally

© Graham Sherwood 06/2017

Morning Bill

We sleep downstairs,
wonderful in this heat and
I’m dreaming of Bea playing
outside the open bedroom window
too early
then realise it’s the boys next door
in the tree house.
I slip out and leave you to sleep
entangled, and
stumble up to make tea,
wash up last night’s wine glasses
wistful, remembering
the taste of each wine
the words of each friend
still sat out at midnight
warm as freshly picked fruit.
Now, a lazy breakfast
at the same table
coffee, yoghurt and strawberries
far too healthy, but
it’s Father’s Day, so
I think of the children
and my own father too, long dead

© Graham Sherwood 06/2017

Mayko

outside nothing stirs,
occasionally a lazy cloud
glides across the tarnished moon,
a slow-motion camera shutter
sleep defying blink,
light into darkness into light
then motionless once more

it’s easy to become snake-eyed,
my saucer size pupils
glare at a single point
a lichen covered stone toad
urgently willing movement,
my brain elects to play the game
improvises a shudder
then sniggers patronizingly
I am so easily fooled

Through this silver, charcoal, silver repartee
I am lost to a Zen torpor
the same word revolves
halo-like
speechless
peace
light into darkness into light

© Graham Sherwood 06/2017

Free Radicals

Unbidden foreign spores

alight upon our skin

and slowly seed among us

thus the canker sows

feint blemishes first unseen

religiously infect with malevolent

seditious intent

so the canker grows

youthful bloom bleeds

self-assured beauty poisoned

tainted by this vague stain

see the canker shows

this crippling vile palour

deepens, burrowing

embryo to oblivion

now the canker blows

© Graham Sherwood 06/2017

Gig

That’s it, it’s over,
your first gig,
and no-one can put the genie
back in the bottle now.

There will be no more arguments
about being all grown up,
no fractious rows about,
how responsible you are
and how you really
can look after yourself.

It was only the half-smile and
“give her a break” look
from your mother
that melted my indignant resolve
sadly it will haunt her forever.

So I reluctantly said yes!
and foolishly added the haughty caviat
“but make sure you
come out early before the crush”
a defeated dad’s demand
that will haunt me for eternity too.

The only thing that may
keep me sane,
keep me strong for your mum’s sake
was the serene look of pleasure
on your beautiful face
as you hurried down the steps
caught my eye and waved jubilantly,
before your words suffocated
behind the flash.

© Graham Sherwood 22/05/2017

Noises Off

It’s a quiet house now, but

still the refrigerator grumbles

several times a day,

chuntering grudgingly

evasive in the corner, like

an old man in a public lavatory

having difficulty with a troublesome fly button,

immersed in some personal 
but secret commentary.

In the same room, and

not to be outdone

a splendid kitchen clock

a headmistress in the making

claps out loud, for attention at

twenty-to the hour,

but strangely

she only applauds us twice a day.

After the heating has been on, and

the house cools of an evening,

the radiators stolid

as a pair of opening batsmen

retire for the day un-bowled,

sending a turbulent creak

through spare-bedroom Jim

who settles by turning over in contracting huff.

I, prone on the small sofa

need to mimic a corpse

for fear of releasing a random fart

from the highly-polished leather,

dissatisfied with the knowledge

that no-one will believe it wasn’t me.

It’s a quiet house now

there’s only two of us.

© Graham Sherwood 05/2017