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.
