The Naked Troubadour

Transfiguration [sonnet]

Posted on Sep 12, 2011 Updated on Mar 30, 2017

We sanctify all spaces with our love —
transform them into lifeful-scented scenes.
A scraggy-feathered bird becomes a dove
and leafless trees are changed to evergreens.

Our lantern lips meet in a darkened room
and suddenly Aurora’s sunlight shines.
Embracing hotly by a rubbish heap
makes refuse-laden stigmas redefined.

I swear that if we in a battlezone
should conjugate ourselves in passion’s blaze
all guns would melt and drown the combat drone
while bullets danced in ceaseless ricochets.

Each time we kiss or other gesture make
A place becomes a palace in our wake.

© 2011, Alan Morrison