A Sonnet for Sophie
As Autumn’s golden leaf-fall wake began
some two unveiling grieveful years ago;
the wind which blew devised a counterplan
and overturned your summer’s afterglow.
Just when you least expected such a call
(for until then your garden gaily grew)
a pale-faced cloaked intruder climbed the wall
and axed the tree which filled your field of view.
Yet, everyone’s a tree in God’s rich loam;
we cannot penetrate his mystery mind.
So when he calls a loved one sharply home
this is the only comfort I can find:
That tree dissolved its love into the clay;
you see it in your flowers every day.
© 2012, Alan Morrison
The Naked Troubadour 