Grief

A look back over my browsing history, one might come to the conclusion that I'm well on the path to an unhealthy obsession with sex.

It's a homework task for my creative writing degree course - (that's what they all say!)

Step one involved brainstorming words about sex. Thinking about sex? It was enough to have me blushng!  I needed fourteen words - words that I could see incorporated in a sonnet.

Step two required me to write a sonnet about death. I'm not sure that just because there are fourteen lines that it makes it a sonnet. The task did not demand iambic pentameter or a rhyming scheme, although there was a change of direction, a volta, or turn, needed somewhere.

It turned out fine in the end. Marrying sex with death certainly stretched my creativity.

 
Touch lingers though you are gone

Whispers trace what was, but is no more

Tasting sorrow on my tongue, I

Tremble in a world grown hostile. I

Need something of you and

Stroke memories into fresh vitality

Pulse slows to sleeping as seasons

Merge – then and now and will be

Heart pauses, stops, restarts as a new

Rhythm supplants the old

Delight seems an impossible notion yet

Curves a quiet promise and

Presses a changing pattern inside

Filling a darkness with persistent light