ㅁ 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.