Sonnet

 

Look- all is reassembled in a year.


For a pastel fleck comes the bee, the thorn.


But seeds who still wait lay frozen by fear


under the wheels of a machine. Unborn.

 

Look- flowers are walking, summer to spread


across so fine a landscape warm and green.


Yet more- and on a pitted tarmac bed


to sun, from shadows owning them, will lean.

 

How shall I honour them? Modesty shows.


Their's the path to lead me, pride let me go. 


Nor let a mind sleep but there a stem grows


and day breaks on the dewdrop on the rose.

 

I have been looking but closer would see


the further they stray- faint stars lost to me.

◄ The Last Giant Tortoise

The Poem: ►

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