Sunday Sonnet (with Alternative Rhyme), #21, 2016

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[Image from Pinterest]

A lake.  Not a mirror by which to see

herself, but a window to forgetting.

Liquid, still or stirred by something unseen.

She sits, prays to memory’s loss, hope; waiting.

Tears innumerable has she shed.  Bees

have been born, raised, worked, and then died.  Passing

of time, of seasons spent here, slips by.  Trees

bud, leaf, fall and bare their souls in watching

the woman who longs to forget.  Not yet,

sings the lake in silent song of lapping

on the grassy banks, as if she should let

instead her feet be caressed, skin be met

by cool embrace of remembrance, dreaming

of her boy: her only love, drowned right here.

[Copyright © N R Nolan 2016]