Sonnet 1.

When you have seen my music move the grass
where you have lain outside the willow’s shade
and heard the wind’s high-pitch descend to bass,
you stroll away into the dusk and fade.

You make me feel my music might contain,
a strophe or two of Dylan’s underground
that sheds no lasting light beyond a stain,
but rings a mellow bell of pleasing sound.

My strings lay still in hours that you sleep,
I watch your posture change a dozen times,
each twist and turn, a lyric, then I creep
away and put to paper - conjured rhymes.

Some nights I dream my harp has lost its strings -
and you are dancing, showing off your wings.

poem by Esmond Jones
Added by Poetry Lover
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