(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.