Broken Fence [sonnet]
Not wishing to be overwhelmed with love
she sits her self down on the broken fence.
She knows that all it takes is one small shove
and then the endless falling will commence.
And so, to stabilise herself, she nails
her legs on to the wood. But then, to keep
her rigid poise, her little arms she flails.
(Throughout this process she was fast asleep!)
Despite the windmill weirdness of her hands,
I dodged those flailing fists to set her free.
The nails I ripped out (blood sprays where it lands)
and smashed that fence to smithereens with glee.
The moral of the story? Don’t be fazed
when women, to defend themselves, act crazed!
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© Alan Morrison, 2014
The Naked Troubadour 