Poetry Drawer: A Nod to Shakespeare’s Sonnet, no: 73 by Faye Joy

Bare Tree

It’s that time when you may find me grim.

When absent leaves will render branches bare

and sodden pigeons seek forlorn retreat.

Only a lonely troubadour thrush sings.

You see me hunched against the morning chill

as condensation dribbles down, I make

a sideways swipe to foil the downward run

as gentle room heat slowly ghosts all trace.

 

You stand behind me though I do not hear,

your whispers stray as memory wanders past.

You know I seek to find the long lost thread,

touch me once more that I may feel your warmth,

then, as my towelled hand wipes the glass, I think

I catch a glimpse, so faint – you leave again.

 

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