Sunday Sonnet, #10, 2015


It only took a sweater.  Final piece,

last remnant of him, found in a box on

the top shelf of the wardrobe, dark blue on

light – cashmere memory, so soft, no drab fleece

for her lost love.  He lived for the best, each

item needed be of luxury (con

to himself, given his history, non-

privileged as it was).  Her mind had no peace

in understanding why he chose her.  No,

she knew – her family knew – the why, the how.

She was his best prize, the gold medal so

eagerly sought to put from his mind low

thoughts of past.  She’d been duped, been dumb.  She now,

with relish, threw that sweater in the bin.

[Copyright N R Nolan © 2015]

[Image sourced from]