The Ninth Day
An Ekphrastic Sonnet
Eight bright and bowing dawns were just for me
This rich, green island was my glad garden
No prince or priest or bearded knight could see
Over my sparkling diadem; and then
The tower’s gloom and panicked stench of woe
Closed tightly ‘round my silken throat, a noose
To yonder nursemaid, I a debt do owe:
From the womb’s small ocean, she set me loose
Into the grey tomb, my head forgotten
My scepter snapped; my will, once law, ignored
The dewy ripeness of my reign now rotten
My attention, once coveted, abhorred;
Queen for no longer than a fly draws breath
Soon a sycophant in the court of Death
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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