Sonnet 340

The curtain rises at the break of day,
Sweet feathered chorus rousing to the call,
An April morning, sullen cold and grey
Still with an air of spring to life enthrall;
Another scented summer lies in wait
Yet springtide zips her peignoir pink and blue
To sleep again until drab winter’s prate
Wakes her again when his ice reign is through.
Thespians of the solstice come and go,
Soliloquies commissioned  by the sun
Who orchestrate the tempo and the flow
Of every act until each set is done.
Here I, proud patron of this living art
Behold by eyes scenes best beheld by heart.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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