Sonnet 548

With summer’s heat now broiling broccoli 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 soothe it’s florid glow.
White cotton twill now steamed against my skin
Swill sopped in sweat, damp hanging in despair;
Rank smell of roses roasting in the sun
And lilac pyres’ incense on the air.
A wing aloft, poor Icarus aflame
Circling 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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