Sunday Sonnet [Again on a Monday, Again Without Rhyme Scheme], #16, 2015


Simple, bound constructs of arranged words, but

they were his friends, almost.  This one, it had

awoken his mind to life’s possibilities,

pathways of choice illuminated in

a phrase, a chapter, one of three epic

parts; that one, it was a diary not

his own, which still spoke his innermost thoughts

(that break up, the first, had been hard); and this,

battered, once of leather sheen, had travelled

the globe with him, literary armour

against harsher times and places not so

accepting of his temperament: “The Book”,

as it were, for him, for his life, pre-writ

in the stars of truth, of right, up afar.

[Copyright © N R Nolan 2015]