Today’s prompt was to write a sonnet. *groan*. Ok, I’m tired, I’m grumpy, I’m not feeling remotely poetic, and I loathe sonnets…so I have rewritten an old poem in (kinda) sonnet form.
Polished, symmetrical, the pebble sits
cradled in the pocket of my closed fist
like a weighted word, ready for the gift –
the shift of power, shoulder down to wrist.
No. This one’s a keeper. You call it Moses,
wrap it in white tissue and keep it locked,
-where it can remain, a stubborn presence-
up tight in the closed fist of your pocket
to rub against your thigh or keep company
with the space between those lonely fingers.
The guillemots are cursing, hungrily
the clouds gather speed. Thunder lingers
and when you look at me I understand-
time and violence make true beauty, unplanned.
(ps – the picture is the completely beautiful Camber Sands beach in East Sussex – the beach of my childhood)