Sunday Sonnet [On A Monday, Sans Rhyme Scheme], #15, 2015


[Image from Mapsart]

She didn’t know when he would be stopping

by again.  It felt an age since last he

had bothered to visit, but then again

she could be wrong – her mind wasn’t what it

used to be.  Her face alone reminded

her of that fact each morning, each night, framed

by grey verging on white, faded image

of beauty passed.  Yet, it was the change in

his love that she mourned most: from crying babe

sucking at her breast, to young man longing

to escape (away, abroad).  He had cut

the chord and not looked back, except upon

occasions when she protested, out-stretched

hand asking, grasping; clawed fingers shaking.

[Copyright © N R Nolan 2015]