10th April 2014

Sonnet 126

...even The End seems to be in her power,

Timed from my leaving, it's within the hour;

She's  here yet in absentia and show'st

A conundrum - since she died my love grow'st.

Watching Nature recycle ruin (wrack)

From bud to deadhead and seasonally back

(To spot her in  cankerless bud takes skill):

This reversion: a promise death can't kill.

Yet fear her, O thou minnion of her pleasure,

Thinking you've bypassed grief, gone straight to treasure?

     Her Audite* (though delayed) answer'd must be,

     And her Quietus** is to render thee.


* final account

**quietus est - i)she is quit   ii)discharge from life, peace.