I write this sonnet of the usual fourteen lines, but in the Spenserian style of thyme pattern of, ABAB....BCBC.....CDCD......EE.
I stand alone upon the Quarry Hills,
watching the waves on the shore below.
That sea covered village, giving me chills.
Was it just there, that my father did grow.
All those cottages, now nothing to show,
is that the church bell, I hear beneath,
those forceful waves, that ebb and flow,
calling ghosts to church, their souls to bequeath.
I'm startled by a fluttering leaf.
The ghosts of so many people here,
when those seas rose up, giving them grief,
and they fought to escape, and new real fear.
Our history gone, and all beyond reach.
What lessons were learnt, our children to teach?