Imperfect Sonnet

They pulled apart my childhood brick by brick.

Replaced it with an edifice of glass,

Or sometimes steel or highly polished stone.

Assured me that this new design would last.

They changed the roads until the way was lost,

And signposts that I knew meant nothing more.

The landmarks that once helped me navigate

Reduced to photographs, labelled ‘before’.

But now I see the new torn down as well,

Its modern gleam no armour, no defence,

Against the cries of “Build us more and more!”

The clamour for elaborate pretense.

Trust nothing but the pictures that you find,

Imperfectly preserved inside your mind.



Burnished drops hang on the wind’s own words,
Most aware of their perfection.
Landing softly on the wings of birds,
Gazing on their own reflection.

All along the lengthy winding way,
Faces turn to garner favours,
At the closing of another day,
As the bright horizon wavers.

And the story nears a certain close;
One of joy or one of sorrow.
Who can tell for sure, since no-one knows,
What the tale will be tomorrow?

Burnished drops hang on the wind’s own words
As the sun recedes in beauty,
Bringing forth the blissful silken night
Ready to perform her duty.