II
By a fine rock tree, a brew she makes.
Like a lover of fate, she lights up dawn.
Together with witches, she conjures a lake.
Sartorial stars, surrounding a swan.
That look, in her eye. Midnight's dark fire.
God's minstrels, awed, not knowing what to say.
A young woman sighs, pale marks of desire.
Death stumbles backwards, awkward, towards May.
Young lads, brave, conquer an imagined city.
Arm-to-arm. French footfalls. Wish no more.
Such memory is hard, and life has no pity.
Heaven must beckon. A still Swan at shore.
As morning comes to her, she wakes to be.
A lake-bright mountain, formless, toward sea.
A contest entry
- Shakespearean Sonnets by masterblaster.
6500 points, ended December 14, 2008, 16 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
What did you think
Comments
-
Hi, pretty poem but needs work on the iambic pentameter.Di
Adding your comment:
