Passing by Alan Spence

Sometimes you hear a perfect sonnet line,
spoken in passing, the word on the street
fall easily, but as if by design
into that good, old pentameter beat.
So on this late September afternoon,
summer winding down, shading into fall,
the day, the year, this life, passing too soon,
i almost hear the meaning of it all
as a young mother calls out to her son
running daft in this scrap of city park.
She calls, knowing this time will soon be done,
but as if love might yet hold back the dark,
‘Just play a while and then we have to go.’
Just play a while and then we have to go.