Sonnet 340

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

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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