Sunday Sonnet, #24, 2016


[Image by Natalia Drepina]

Back of hand upon grass, green against white;

in her palm a bloom, plucked from wild – a sign

of her freedom, quashed when she’d moved in; wine

not enough to dull ache of her loss.  Kite

without a breeze she felt now.  That she might

have turned away, not played the game… But dine

she did with him, time and time again, line

drawn underneath the relationship.  Night

unending awaited her after this:

his kisses, his bliss.  Not hers, never hers.

She missed the daylight, hope of better (list

was endless of what she’d lost).  Heavy mist

on the soul this lot.  Palm closes, her nerves

calm, as the bloom crumbles: no hope, no harm.

[Copyright © N R Nolan 2016]