Sunday Sonnet [with Alternative Rhyme], #15, 2016


[Image from Flickr]

Had to fix that gutter soon: waterfalls now

tumbled from off the roof.  Windowed scenes should

not be dissected by water, somehow

cascading from the heavens as in woods –

each leaf a precipice from which, endowed

with life-giving liquid, torrents of goods

watery plummet to the ground and plough

through the forest’s debris.  Natural.  Would

she could explain away this like so, though

it wouldn’t wash.  Didn’t abide by rules

anyway.  This home was hers.  She might mow

the grass, repaint the door – or not.  A sew-

and-patch job was hers to choose.  Instead, cool

iced drink come summer, gutter still untouched.

[Copyright © N R Nolan 2016]