What shall I write tonight? I’ll think on it
And when I’ve had some thoughts I’ll let you know
But what I write must fit in a sonnet
As snugly as a booted foot in snow
Five feet, ten syllables per line, must flow
Or must it? I could stray off-piste, it’s true
Experiment, live dangerously, though
Like sonnets, I prefer to stay with you
Astonishingly, though our lips turn blue
It’s comforting and so I won’t shun it
Until all feeling’s gone, not just the glow
We felt at base camp when the climb was new
The view at this height, nearing the summit
Is some sight to behold, though cold winds blow
Thur 31 July 2008
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