A Sonnet
Mordewis ap Llys
Her hair of flaming serpents, spreading wide,
A spice her name, to raise my aching mast
The sweetness of her nectar now recalls
Upon my tonge, of pleasures long since past
The softness of her face betrays a soul
Which burns with longings of a far-off time
And place – a well-worked loom, a much-used stool
A kitchen free of culinary crime
The giant man who held her heart enthroned
With tenderness and passion, as they planned.
And swung her hips in time with his, and moaned,
He gave her of the hunt, and worked the land…
And many yet to come, the promise goes –
The tiger’s claws within a woman’s hand
Dear Lady, hold me always in thy heart
So mote it be, as ever from the start.
©2000 (6/14) by Gerald L. “Moss” Bliss; the dedicant knows who she is
This sonnet was just discovered (4/27/07) among my papers. It was not the first sonnet I have written (check Shakespeare's sonnets for style), but is the only one I've found so far. Not very subtle, perhaps, but definitely to the point.
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