Number 8

The warming, windswept winter light comes through
the thick dark arms of figs, and gently weaves
around a carpet wrought from crackling leaves
that once were held so high against the blue
and shone beneath the springtime sun that grew
them strong and soft, then quickly took its leave
for fall, and fallen, winter doesn’t grieve
for fallen leaves, or colours she once knew;

instead, remembers things that we have seen;
she knows the fiery red, the restful green;
she sees the lovers kiss and children chase;
she knows the sun’s warm hand upon her face;
and you can see her silver in the sky—
the glimmering of spring behind her eye.


One Response to “Number 8”

  1. Howdy. Who are you two? I thought I was the last person in the world writing sonnets. I’m a bit threatened by your site. Chris Mansell alerted me to your existence (which co-incidentally spawned the first villanelle I’ve written in twenty + years:

    write to me, at and tell me who you are and where you are and what you’re doing…

    Also, check out – we’re publishing an anthology in the new year and you both ought to be in it.

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