Sunday Sonnet [On A Monday, Semi-Rhyme Scheme Inclusive], #17, 2015


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It crept up on her, shadow like – the doubt,

the questioning of direction.  Acid

to the mind, the soul.  Bitter lemons and

sour plums of thought to chew over; spit out

in disgust at loss of self, not a pout

but a grimace at her face, eyes she hid

in lowered pose to read the lives others

led by gleeful energy (without doubt).

A cup of tea, a song to hum along

to on the radio, a glance simply

to rain beyond glass, and that cloud so wrong

would dissipate; the sun’s rays – ultra strong –

would part the gates to heaven, it seemed.  She

could breathe again, might smile, or so pretend.

[Copyright © N R Nolan 2015]