Sunday Sonnet, #7, 2015

2015-06-21 09.50.23-1

It was the sound of pages turning that

she missed the most; the way he poised his thumb

above the book in hand (a god-like pause,

sole determiner of progress; or else,

cessation of the reading act).  It was,

also, that way he frowned: so severe, so

vulnerable.  It was then she’d want him

most, want to sit upon his lap and kiss

away all thoughts which troubled him.  Her lips

would call him back to her from the fiction,

from each story where he wandered.  His gaze

returned to peruse her face, drink in and

remember: laughter, conversation, ceased

in the space ‘twixt rose and fallen petal.

[Copyright N R Nolan © 2015]