Tonight's Poet Corner: Sonnet Solstice #517

The Fifth Of August
by Belinda Roddie

The fifth of August was Sam's funeral,
and Lisa was there, dressed fully in black,
watching as the coffin, stiffened white pall
and all, descended far beyond the stack
of dirt and settled into endless dust.
Sam had been thirty-three, too young to throw
away her mortal coil, as Shakespeare must
have said (or was it shuffled? I don't know,
thought Lisa, and frankly, I just don't care).
All she could think of was her lover's smile
and blue eyes before dimming in despair,
sunken above skeletal cheekbones, tile
in color. August sixth was no better,
and Lisa's drinking would not be deterred.