Sunday Sonnet [without rhyme scheme], #9, 2015


The sun burned down, tanning her skin, and yet

no comforting heat did it bring to him

to know these summer days would be their last

with this view so long theirs only, soon gone

with a wave, incoming, of buyers new

and hungry for their history; lost now

to new money and faces of greed.  His

father would turn in his grave; his mother

would cry without stop.  He was relieved they

were dead.  Sweet peace of ignorance.  But now

their bags were packed, the extraneous sold.

Tomorrow, they’d be on their way; today,

they would sit and soak in the sun – final

happy memory.  Last taste of solitude.

[Copyright N R Nolan © 2015]