 |
| Source |
As
May isn’t spring everywhere, there are
some
days of different shapes and perfume.
A
few miles down this road, not all that far
a
different season of an endless war -
no
daffodils there, only the guns in bloom.
But
you may light a candle in this room,
a
change of smoke masks scorched flesh and burnt tar.
You
may turn the page and let chapters close,
may
press the required key and work the knob
till
it’s spring again and the daffodil grows,
everything
here pleases the eyes and nose.
Just
a couple of tweaks will do the job -
turn
up the sound and drown out the faint throb
and
phantoms of smoke outside these windows.
Okay, April has zapped, zipped, zoomed past taking A-Z with it and boy, was it a continuous funfest blogparty or what? My head barely stopped spinning - too much merrymaking - exhausted by the end of it, but in a good way. Took some time to get my breath back, but now I'm back in the usual poetry mode in my usual whingy avatar, and all is proceeding towards sunshine and drawstring PJ's and comfortably smug n snug here. And no wonder. Because - 119. That's the wordcount of this 7X7 sonnet. You just can't beat poetry for teeny-tininess, you can't!
Hope your May is going well too, spring or autumn.
Hope your May is going well too, spring or autumn.
