Under this raging sun the ragwort blooms
and ancient English oaks stand broad and tall.
On the wing, strange, alien-blue, dragonflies zoom,
as vivid caterpillars stretch and crawl.
Meanwhile, a song thrush finds its finest hour
in glorious song, a masterclass of splendour.
Its beauty’s only matched by bright wildflowers;
as this dream becomes a glimpse through heaven’s door.
We stroll along the gayly dressed bright field,
whilst skylarks burble in the meadow grass.
Such visions jar with those further afield,
reminders of the life of days gone past.
Too few, alas, these ghosts of what has gone –
our lives are haunted by their lives undone.

I thought I’d try and rework yesterday’s poem into a sonnet, its content seeming to call for a more classic form.
(29.06.25)

© Ben Quant 2025