Sherrie Lowe Poems

You once sat on my wall and talked to me;
I was irked because you spoiled my silly game.
The tender age of twelve was what I'd be.
Aged thirteen and I just don't feel the same.
...

Serene and reflective the old woman sits
warming her legs by the fire.
Calm and objective, her mem'ry selective,
past lovers and wanton desire.
...

Diagonal snow obliterating clear blue sky,
A cold, white duvet softening our footfalls.
Cushioned silence encompasses the path; our senses.
Trees link arms, jealously guarding the carpet
...

A cold, damp night, no cheerful home.
Fingerless gloves clothe frozen hands.
Filled with abjection at life's rejection, society's revulsion.
What brought him to this? What turn of Fate?
...

In spring they said we had a drought,
Nature went to sort it out,
Then it never stopped raining.
...

Suddenly he was there amid city roar,
Pale hair accentuated by cream coat,
Was he real or an unattainable anomaly?
Nameless: A Rupert, Adam, Steven, Joe.
...

When I first saw your smile
I realised how dark my life had been until that moment.

When I first saw your eyelashes
...

Pink eyes, once bright, now dimmed, glazed,
Once powerful legs stilled, lifeless.
The clock chimes five, signalling your death.
Ten years old, no geriatric you,
...

You, who were once my rock, now gone.
A different face, a different you,
An indifference.
What once mattered no longer does.
...

From Spain they came to inhabit our woods,
To oust the pretty native bluebell.
A refugee in English countryside.
Not prolific, only few defiantly
...