24 Oct 2016 – Sonnet

Dawn waits on night skies wrapping up their shift
spent sacking up the street’s discarded dreams –
all past their expiration dates. Why sift
through them again, these all were childish schemes,
conceived in daily dramas that we play,
persuaded – who knows how – the world would be
a better place, if we could have a say,
if only we were grown-ups, and were free.
Dawn comes, the unavoidable demands
of living on a still imperfect street
announced by clocks that count our vanished sand.
Our hearts lost – still we’re forced to find our feet.
It’s likely now we’ll never change this world,
but living for oneself means we’re a churl.