I am a friend of the rose,
That is why my garden is full of blooms
Making a theatre of colour.
Shakespeare would have understood this surely
Speaking of the sweetness of a name
Tongue in cheek, Pen poised like a rapier.
He crammed the whole of life into his sonnets,
Speaking for Everyman in cryptic verse
That cut straight to the heart and stung the mind.
His London now lies deep beneath cold concrete,
And only the names of streets and ancient churches
Bear witness to the mayhem that he knew.
There is little room to draw breath in this city,
Let alone write a sonnet. For me, alas, this garden must suffice.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter
22nd. August 2014.
For Emily who taught me to love the sonnets.
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