Rhymes: An Irregular Sonnet on Their Elusiveness Neatly beyond the mind’s reach they lurk – That quatrain or tercet pulled up short By hours, days, even years. Nothing for it Except patience, poised between rest and work Inspiration’s unglamorous obverse And frequent sine qua non as writer turns Deep-sea angler. Beneath conversations, Newscasts, staff meetings, their chimed murmurs Promise symmetries other language lacks. Back inside your study, upon sleep’s brink Again the silence stirs. Somewhere between ink And aspirin you haul them in; relax At last, prose left standing, for now outmatched – Self strangely other, not as you might think. Martin Bennett | Mudlark No. 12 Contents | Summertime in Italy