Under the Larch

A sonnet composed with no regard for accents.

Sill I may sit under the young larch tree
after the rain has gone down the mountain,
imagining you in France without me
sitting under some clear bub'ling fountain.

I may worry that you will not return,
but at some point after the sun has set
I will eat hearty, somewhat less to yearn.
I will take bread on grass no longer wet.

I will soon think of my family at home
and walk down the lane stepping through briars
'til my eyesight grows dim in the night gloam
and I come home to the warmth of the fire.

Even with you in France I cannot fear;
even under the larch I feel you near.

Aug. 2003