Contusion [sonnet]
At first only my footsteps could be heard
while walking in that forest on the hill.
But then a sound (was it a mockingbird?)
of grasping, struggling fingers; it was shrill.
Alongside all that shrillness came a voice
of endless rivered grief yet golden calm;
as lovely you made some pragmatic choice
which yielded an effective healing balm.
When all these puzzles hunkered into place
revealing their contused identity,
I wrote with blood my name in lowercase
and tiptoed round you gently — sacredly.
This bruise which lesions round your broken core
will surely fade with flowers at your door.
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2013
The Naked Troubadour 