Sonnet 548

With summer’s heat draped heavy on the trees
And not a zephyr’s kiss to daub my brow,
I longed for cloud or best, a gentle breeze
To cool my face and daunt it’s florid glow.
The cotton twill fair melting on my skin
Now sopped in sweat and hanging in despair;
The smell of roses burning in the sun
And lilac pyres’ perfumed on the air.
A wing aloft, poor Icarus aflame
Circles slowly searching for some shade,
Perhaps a vulture skirring for the lame
To mark in pirouettes, a looming grave.
So sat I sullen, winter on my mind
And were I there, soft praying warmth to find.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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