Beside Avalon


Standing at lake’s shore, water fog-smudged
foothills of lofty peak lost in grey
wind soft blows, tempting as it plays
soft tune lifting souls, all once heavy judged.
Clambering mountainside, hikers we
passing views mist-swamped, tredding down skree
stones tumbling down, immortal rocks nudged
as we scramble by, as we scramble by
word games lost on wind, fingers grip
for strong purchase, desiring not to fly
into thick grey, by accidental slip
having no death wish, no reason to die
not that day, not by slight trip


9 of 100 sonnets


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