Tuesday morning
28 February 2017

— this morning’s dawn layered clouds in subtle silver, pewter, and bronze

Good Morning All,

As sometimes (but not often enough!) happens when I get locked on to some damn topic or other, a poem will gradually begin to coalesce somewhere down there in my brain. The first line of the one last night woke me up around 2:30, and I danced with it pretty much until dawn, taking brief naps in between the lines.

I have no idea if it is any good. I never do, but that is particularly the case when they are new and fresh from the box. This one might eventually undergo some editing, but it does taste pretty done to me. Here it is, for what it’s worth. 

If I Could Write a Sonnet
Iris Noble

My alter-ego and I removed our shoes
For an ankle-deep walk along the tidal flats.
The waves are not the least subdued this time of year,
Not now little more than a low lapping along the shore,
But brimming with all the grandeur of our spring tides
Of the splash and reach of surf upon the sand
Of tossed up spray and boom along the beach.
As ever alone together I reach for his hand,
The firmness of his grip intensifying the air’s
Salt tang and the forlorn screech of the gulls.
Who, I ask, shall write this evening’s sonnet?
Your turn, he replies, our Miss Easter Euphonic;
Teach me again how nature can so dull the angst in me
And lull me into such rhythms with this northern sea.

Go Well and Stay Well,

Bhekaron