Sunday Sonnet, #8, 2016

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[Image from Pinterest]

Frank crooning, ever performing, while dogs

sit mooning, drooling for that bite of toast

left on the plate.  Peaceful these days that boast

time – time for pleasure, measure of games, cogs

turning in the mechanism (like logs

burning in the grate, counting seconds).  Most

of all she liked the pause, a breath of coast

and memory of seaside walks, just the dogs

and them, hand in hand, feet bare in the sand.

Eyes study him over rim of mug: where did

it go, that love?  Playing house now, the band

of easy listening a salve for problems,

aural gauze to hide the wound; lid

to truth of their broken bond, faded love.

[Copyright © N R Nolan 2016]