The moves are few, mostly of bird or insect kind,
apart from the dropping of a remnant petal;
the seed-globes stuck by yesterday's rain, fettle
their fluff in intervals of sun, but yet they bind.
There is no big gust to put paid to reluctance,
only the odd seed drifts by, mimicking intent
of tiny flies which blur like them, some impulse sent;
hawthorn scent drifts down from the full, though no boughs dance.
All this stillness I do mirror deep within me -
butterfly satisfies lazing Tom's one good eye -
and hope my lack of pathos is no fallacy,
watching crazy paving clouds veil the eye in sky.
Then I forget I ever felt your scars on me,
let go the mystery of where all past years lie.
......................
It's an Italian sonnet, more or less, as to rhyme - but with 12 syllables in a line, and a bit of an English twist-ending.
*Title from the song by John Donne, beginning 'Go and Catch a Falling Star...'
