The Sonnet In The Garden Poem by Sally Evans

I am a sonnet cut into a stone.
No argument so long or lyrical
has reached this garden in the past, wind-blown
or whispered by the birds, no musical
result of water bubbling down a slope,
ancient and natural, no hint of rune
or rhyme, no aphorism, timely hope
on sundial rim, no carrilon or tune
from belfry. Now I live, more than a snatch
of English words, composed by man or woman
and handed on to chisellers to etch
my fourteen lines. I am a poem so human,
yet so complete in logic, truth and form
I stay here permanent in sun and storm.


At Launde Abbey
[2007]