Thursday, 12 December 2013

Sonnet 3

On faded maps the meadow yet appears,
a hallowed grove where peace and order dwell.
Now sacred space must yield to ruthless years;
the brand new houses suit the suburb well.
But find the man who still the meadow mourns,
whose children resurrect it in their dreams.
He cast a baited line in golden dawns,
and found a wife beside its twilit streams.
Let aged eyes adorned by Stoic tears
unfold the tale of the how the west’ring sun
enflamed the limpid pool above the weirs,
each point of light a universe begun.
        Just one of those whom even needful change
        leaves lost and lonely in a world turned strange.



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