Not another sonnet

Of course I know it doesn't have to rhyme

Or be in meter to be 'real' verse

But every time I start to write a line

It seems that even before I have rehearsed

A simple concept or a turn of phrase

The wretched thing has settled on a form

Far out of my control, with its own ways

Of coming to conclusions.  You may yawn

At my complaints and think it rather trite

For surely no one else can be to blame

For what is here, and anything I write

Has to be mine unless I am insane.

          My sixteenth century muse may think it clever

          But am I to be stuck in sonnet-land for ever?

Brian Hick 7.7.09

©copyright  Sally Hick 24.6.22