Acacia Marker [sonnet]
What far-dimensioned madness drives that flight?
This question forms in aspic’s driving wake.
That hand signed up as someone lilywhite;
but no one knew the signature was fake.
Amidst the fallout fantasies I strayed;
not knowing that the tail was toxin-tipped.
My back was turned — the scene was tailor-made.
For such imposture I was ill-equipped.
So now I take a marker in my hand;
Acacia is the wood that I prefer.
With this a line is etched into the sand;
thus foolsome firestorms cannot reoccur.
Such lessons never come too late to learn.
Once bitten, twice shy — next time I discern!
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 