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The rain had washed the world all clean:
from the trees' branches hung blinded eyes,
but mud-scrubbed stones held the road.
A bird sang suggestions, remained unseen:
a purple fog had captured the skies,
but a sun peered through a mist that flowed.
I walked up the gravel road a ways:
feeling as if reduced in size
by the looming trees with their secret code.
That rain had fallen for many days:
time's old load.
– a curtal sonnet. I’m not sure how well I did. I tried to imitate the form invented by the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins, with a four-foot “sprung rhythm” and 10 1/2 lines.
