All English Sonnets
Two winding trails issue from the hill,
Thickly wooded ,foliage curved one.
And recede each towards the silent watermill,
Which sits along the river- on the run.
Towards overhanging river cliff,
Precariously where sits the town
Where perched a town preciously, as if,
At any moment, it was going to fall,
Into the river below. All in all.
The trails, river, watermill and town
Are parts of an ever-recovering theme,
The patent, I have always, called my own,
Ingredients of my being, what I mean.
This is a thing one can not wait to learn.