Farewell dear Sonnet, should we ever meet
beneath those august boughs I’ll not forget
how tears turned into words upon your sheet,
how heartfelt musings echoed when we met.
The lark is up, this gypsy soul ascends,
the winds of England blow a brilliant gale
to lure me, and a soft-eyed stranger wends
his curious caravan down bright-lit vales.
But surely as an infant frets at night
and seeks an ancient lullaby to calm,
so shall I search in shadows for your light
when lost in doubtful verse and distant arms.
This then is not goodbye but au revoir
my love, my beating heart, my guiding star.