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8th April 2011

The Storm’s Sonnet

Fourteen lines rotate like a weather vane

Thunder cracks in dreary stone split skies. Jarred
As the looming clouds, I am drenched in blues
As I scrap the scribbled lines I learnt by heart
For you. Another wasted sonnet fused
By tears and cloudburst with pain. The storm
Of my soul plays an aimless song again,
A cyclone melody trapped by its form.

Fourteen lines rotate like a weather vane
Searching for the direction I can’t find,
While new rain in this constant streaming city
Spirals the memories stuck in my mind.
I’m left with the rhymes of strained self-pity

As I slowly trace the trickle of drops
And wait inside for the storm to stop.

Rachael Clarke


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