I almost forgot to write this poem
My daily sonnet almost wasn't born
At least not on the day it should have been
That would indeed have made my heart forlorn
But luckily as I read in bed, shorn
Of the expected tiredness one should feel
While avidly devouring 'The Wild Swans'
And finding it had page-turner appeal
I realised the lack of poem, real
Urgency gripped me, and I leapt again
From my bed, pausing to put my jeans on
Then made my way to the laptop to seal
The deal and write this sonnet, these fourteen
Lines oh so lively, not at all sleep-worn
Tue 12 March
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