'How can I tell you, all the things inside my head'
There is beauty in birdsong
a chaos of thrilling notes
such a pleasing cacophony
of unchivalrous voices
each overplaying the other.
This is no angelic choral
it is a conversation, where
each voice must be heard
from the unseen clicking wren
to the squabbling jealous magpie
that heckles the tuneful blackbird.
In this jollity there is meaning,
messages, demands and truths
there is beauty in birdsong
so listen to the words.
*
© Graham R Sherwood 06/22
We arrived early, Laugharne was still asleep.
Having not had breakfast, with both of us famished
we found a café with no proper menu and
I ordered a plate of rarebit, the real stuff,
to impress my Welsh son-in-law
and sent him photographic proof.
After food, sated, we skirted the castle ruins
and strolled the tide path to the boathouse
foolishly taking the vertiginous steps
and not the scenic village route
which would have been much easier.
With a sweep of superlative syllables
the Tâf estuary deftly carried our breath away
on a broadly curved brushstroke of an ebb tide.
I mistook a sea otter for a seal, but
Anna put me right with better eyes
as transfixed, we watched it flail
a broken kelp stalk like a cudgel,
making elaborate dives and swirls,
breaking cover like a large black button,
its brief flourishes an unexpected treat.
The morning heat had already roasted
the timbers of Dylan’s writing shed,
I peered through its pane like an urchin
sent in search of an errant father
down the pub, finding nothing
more than his discarded jacket
haphazardly robing an empty chair.
Before leaving I bought a well-carved owl
and a tiny wooden mouse,
hoping it would go down well with Bea
as our gift for stealing away for a few days.
Over iced cream, we listened
to the opening stanzas of Under Milk Wood
from a talking book in the car,
Burton’s sonorous tone spreading rich as honey.
*
© Graham R Sherwood 06/22
Scanning hulls, I notice the
boats all have evocative names,
they’re all someone’s babies
after all, many painted blue to grace
the bathwater waves.
They nestle, neatly berthed,
tightly tucked as orphans
in a dormitory, some
seem to wait in vain
for their owners’ return,
doze cheek by jowl, as
the harbour’s gentle swell
jostles them comfortably
awake.
Dawn unveils a new day
with the musical clinks
and taps of ropes on rigging,
a lively uplifting overture
and perhaps, once again
the anticipation of new voyages.
*
© Graham R Sherwood 06/22
Now there’s nothing left to do,
flags are furled
bunting neatly folded
boxed and put away.
Streets lie empty
barriers stacked roads swept
and vehicles claim
closed roads once more.
An eerie quietude
falls across the land
breath is held, fingers tap
bets are laid, choices cast.
Somewhere an old lady sits alone
with thoughts of duty, loyalty
devotion, service,
wondering where did all this begin
the whys, the whens
and how if ever will it end.
*
© Graham R Sherwood 06/22
I used to say never change a word
but it’s done, pored over within
an inch of being thrown on the fire.
It lives, has a name and now needs
the nourishment of publication,
to go out in the world to breathe.
I know forever forward,
like the concern for a child
I will worry about this fragile thing
*
© Graham R Sherwood 06/22
These days I travel rarely,
even less by rail, I’m not a herd animal
ergo I am permanently unfamiliar
with station chaos.
On departing, the train glides forward
effortlessly, a low electric hum
raising its pitch to a softened wheeze,
that never seems to reach
its desired zenith.
Sitting cheek by jowl
amongst myriad instructions
and information signs
that no-one reads.
I am minded to notice the
great number of passengers
who use the tiny cabined toilet
and how brief their visits are,
as if taking the eucharist.
I glance outside, to gauge progress
but the sleekly narrow windows
and impressive speed
conspire to blur the countryside
to a green smear.
Sitting opposite a copious lady
is wearing a tee shirt, printed
to show a life-sized face stretched
tautly across her ample bosom.
I am disconcerted
as a pair of eyes stare me out
one from each breast,
I then realise the face belongs
to Maya Angelou
and poetic justice is duly served
I look away chastened
toward the tiny cabined toilet
still doing a roaring trade.
On peoples’ faces, I see
anguish, melancholy, enquiry
concern, dismay, urgency
but none look happy.
Thirty minutes pass,
outside the blur changes
from sage green to graffiti grey
as we begin to slow
the wheeze returns to a hum
passengers stir, the tiny cabin
uncharacteristically vacant
*
© Graham R Sherwood 05/22
a four o’clock grey dawn,
early to bed means
early doors,
I stand out the back
to taste the day
a cross between
licking an old penny
and opening a new book,
only a new parent robin stirs
trampolining over the lawn
worming breakfast,
my god it’s beautiful now but
not much is promised later on,
our Thursday trip to Joan
a threadbare ninety-three
let’s hope she wakes up
albeit each week
she says she doesn’t want to,
over my first coffee
I ponder whether Karolina
and her four-year old
from Ukraine will arrive today
on next door’s doorstep
as planned,
new lives for old
*
© Graham R Sherwood 05/22
Ten feet up in the wings
perched on a scaffold tower
best seat in the house.
Hoisted clumsily to a three-plank seat
with only a right-hand glove
as the lamp gets very hot.
Twelve years old it’s
a big responsibility,
a lot to remember
working the stage right spotlight.
Always yellow for chorus, blue for night
pink for fairy, green for the baddie.
I was never afraid of the demon
played by my friend’s dad Eric
By the end of the week
I was word perfect with the show tunes
from Carousel, South Pacific, Oklahoma
and West Side Story.
I got all the jokes, even the grown-up ones,
unscripted mustard sandwich pranks
the prompts, the local hecklers too.
Every evening for one whole week
bookended by two shows each Saturday
I shone my purest pink beam
and sent my undying schoolboy love
to the good fairy, a teenage goddess
a beauty five years my senior
with never any chance of a smile.
*
© Graham R Sherwood 05/22
my life has spanned seven decades,
there is little that I need,
simple mantras now signpost my days
my worldly irrelevance lies lightly
on my contentment
I have become sanguine and wise
*
© Graham R Sherwood 05/22
the girl in the playground
who first held my heart
ran like an antelope
sang chords like a harp,
the smell of burnt toast
clung deep on her clothes
and Quink ink tattoo stains
blotted her nose,
it’s her green flashing eyes
I can never forget
when, too young for such feelings
we finally met
I had to run hard to catch
this most beautiful fawn
leaving her suitors
bereft and forlorn
but my whole world crumbled
I half-expected it would
as no boy could move her
like singing songs could
and a lifetime later
I can still hear her voice
now the playground stands empty
I wasn’t her choice.
*
Graham R Sherwood 04/22
Graham Sherwood 