Sunday Sonnet, #20, 2016

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[Image from Pinterest]

Just this.  Strolling, one being, through the grass –

so tall, she felt a child; infant of Earth.

A brush, a touch, seeds into palm: no dearth

of life here, in meadow so lush.  A last

paradise of promise; wild pre-Man.  Past

behaviour, historic wounds unseen: birth

secret, conceived without aid.  With a mirth

come from hush, Nature has thrived – verdant blast

just outside the city bounds.  So alive,

she felt a belonging, becoming part

of a realm not her own.  Creature of lies,

intruder foreign to this land where fly

birds, from finch to birds of prey.  Was her heart

that sang a prayer to stay.  Right here.  Just this.

[Copyright © N R Nolan 2016]