A breeze, a gust, is just a to and fro,
thresh and ply, the sway, the nod, the dither
make no odds; just let the may sweetness go
where it will; let me breathe its come-hither.
The blue dissolve above that swallowed clouds
holds milky ghosts, the evening may release;
drift tiny wings, drift seeds, sun blonds their shrouds,
and dusk slides gently down the day's decrease.
Then why am I a grip will not let go
of guilts, of griefs, of gulfs horizon-claimed?
I hear the evening bell. It tolls me through.
I've traveled much too far; and yet I'm chained.
Last blossoms of the apple, by the wind
shook loose, must leave their leafy boughs behind.
...........................
A Shakespearean sonnet.
I needed his help to write, since I had just got back from leaving my parents' house for the clearance people. If this sale falls through, touch wood it won't, and I ever camp out there, it will be in a shell.
YOU ARE READING
The Singing Season
PoetryThe Singing Season. That's the spring-time. You'll also like other MajorSeventh poetry collections - and there are so many to choose from.
