Not properly a sonnet, because I didn’t realize I was writing ten syllable lines until halfway through, but it’s still a quatorzain. It’s just a little something I wrote yesterday while I was thinking about a friend.
A Man of Substance
A man of substance had been led astray,
All he once loved had been taken away.
He stood, a broken sword, rooted in earth
In dying light of sun, doubting his worth.
No woman to hold, no children to scold,
As the setting sun turned brown hair to gold.
The man of substance and his faithful dog
Sat down on the hilltop, drowning in fog
With nowhere to turn, no hope of recourse
He wept to the heavens, bitter with loss.
With nothing to gain, and nothing to fear
His voice echoed richly but met no ear.
This man of substance had given his all
But courage alone can’t help with his fall.
© Bridget Noonan, 2011.