This my purgatory, pulsing words.
My forlorn pen looks out across the room,
all strewn with leaves, and splashed about with ink.
Minerva glides seductive through the groves,
and twines herself about the double tree.
The salty fruit still haunts my silent tongue
as I tidy up for dinner.
Cuddy; a sonnet for St. Cuthbert
1 day ago