Sonnet XVIII … Temper’s Storm

Summer’s sultry heat hath fled, yet clouds of darkness remindeth me of steamy days punctuated by the bleak violence of Mother Nature’s stormy temper.

¬†Weathered, I, her fierce and erratic outbursts the only way I knew how … with my nose buried deeply in a pile of comforting hay.

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Sonnet XVIII … Temper’s Storm

Tis summer’s heavy air that cloaks my back

And lifts aloft the biting critters fierce.

And in the distance sounds a mighty crack

As fork of lightning through the skies doth pierce.

The mounting storm with drama doth embroil

We gentle souls who cringe on Earth below.

Yet will I not my dinner let it spoil

And munch away while braving Nature’s show.

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For while the skies may darken as the night

And birds upon a wing may flit and cry,

I must, perchance, contain my yen to flight

And bury nose in hay as tempers fly.

Thus, if a mighty wind my peace destroy

At least I will have died a happy boy.

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See you anon at Poet’s Paddock …

Shakespeare “The Equine”

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Copyright Aimwell CreativeWorks 2012