Poet, which promise would, your word propone. Sonnet.©
Shaw o' Inchrory
Poet, take thee thy hand, a proffered pen
that we may step those stones again,
to where those words of life run free
amongst, a swirling torrent sea.
That we may so the eye perceive
a written thought, where words believe.
The questing flow that quells ne'er a feather's quill
to heed the hand, where favoured fonts will fill.
Emotions where be thy words command,
thy argosies that search truth's ampersand
with lies, and hope, or little honesty
to sail such seas, we would in words so see.
Yet tread we alone such stepping stone,
where promise would, past words propone.