stowaway: a petrarchan sonnet
(remember these moments)
the whirr of the propeller on the nose of my fugitive flight to the mainland shook even my hand, waving to that island. my body: weightless as the plane that rose over the town, and the sea, and the girl, then into the brightness, high over the plains. and my eyes: wide, and full as my thumping veins. and my vow: to return, though not knowing when.
looking north, to Kili, I was made small at the sight of that postcard-perfect peak. and my every cell ached to break free, to be with everything and nothing at all. with every word in the world, I could not speak. that vast landscape below, now part of me.
About the Creator
hannah beckingham
A nurse, sister, daughter, auntie, sober alcoholic, recovering debtor, nomad-at-heart, preacher's kid, over-thinker, dog-lover, new-to-my-40s queer cis-woman, teacher, reader, writer and netflix-binger sharing some thoughts along the way.
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