September Rain (sonnet) <br /> <br /> <br />Most days, on my way to the bar or grocery shop, <br />I walk past an old man who sits in the shade of <br />an oak, on a creaky sofa that has lost its place in <br />the lounge. I usually stop and talk to him, he can’t <br />remember me from one day to the next, tells me <br />the same story about his parents, and where he <br />grew up; Portugal of yore. He isn’t here today, only <br />the mantle, he wraps around himself when there <br />is a chill in the air, is flung on the old sofa; a zephyr <br />whispers that he will not be back. “Will I be that old? <br />I ask the waning sun. I sit on a sofa on the terrace, <br />a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, scan the sky, <br />in the vale where I live and my parents too lived, <br />we wait for September rain.<br /><br />oskar hansen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/september-rain-3/
