Dark nooks, traditionally whisperer’s realm
with cracks’ platinum lined, gilded in gold,
richly adorned, fittingly darkened rooms
where nightshade lingers in grand swan’s beak.
The halls gather dust, corners for cobwebs,
black is banned and corridors draped white.
A shuttered place, unknown, near forgot
of such bleak word, dark talk, swapped for light.
But time creeps by, bones turn frail
and steps disturb thick grey carpeting floor,
years produce liver spots, heart stumbles, falters
and the nooks become crowded, feet on ground,
as the bricks stir and prepare to whisper,
‘London Bridge is falling down, London Bridge…’
Sonnet 20 of 100
On Saturday I encountered the below article on the guardian website as I was trawling for news articles to write a sonnet on. It struck me as peculiar enough to fill the imagination with material to wafffle eloquent upon.