Stir The Fires

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Stir The Fires

Sonnet

How many climes wilt Thou infuse in a human day,
Between bounds of dawn and dusk ever drifting
Like black clouds slowly across the azure sky,
Casting haughty disdain upon my prone being.

I grow as an artefact, a curiosity’s hasty trinket,
Or a craftsman’s odd produce from brief fever,
Left in this museum of time as a forgotten art,
A chalice once fondly held now without a clasper.

Only a slender river of breeze hesitantly drifts
Bearing my heart’s tattered sails to faintly flutter,
These climes and moods human reason confounds,
Whence upon me these descended I can’t decipher.

Stir the fires O Maker, dispatch Thy agents of change,
I have gleaned the lessons of this unsure range.