From The Vault: Ten Years Gone

(Posted at least partially to give evidence I write a format other than tritina/sestina. This was written when I was feeling particularly sad and grief-stricken, although there’s now a story behind this sonnet that makes me rather angry instead. But that is, perhaps, another sonnet.)

Nick, my brother, runs down the stairs, his feet

Beating out a rhythm, his fingers too

On floor and roof. Lawrence lingers in the

Lounge, playing games. My mother, high above,

Cooks dinner, and sings, and dances, while the

Stew bubbles. Father sits in his study

And smokes, and swears, and opens another

Beer. I write poetry in my room. But

That is ten years gone. Alone now, I spread

My arms and legs and listen

To the calls of tuis and kakas from

The kowhai tree outside my windowsill.

 

If I could reach far enough, I could bring

Them back to that day, now ten years gone.

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