Sunday Sonnet, #9, 2016

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[Image from WeHeartIt/Flickr]

Funny how very like orchestral type

the heart-strings played and plucked can be, wound tight

in waiting, only for amateur light

touch to twang distastefully.  “Enough.  Wipe

your eyes,” she chastised herself.  “Weak child, hype

of love from that quarter ever was pipe-

dream stuff.”  Now was her chance: brush it off, kite-

like soar above the baser fall out.  Night

hours would be hard at first, alone, but know

she did that the pain would pass, never last

a period more than she could – below

usual level of spirits – withstand.  Low

had she sunk in imagining him past

all others.  Time to think, to change her tune.

[Copyright © N R Nolan 2016]