Until the Full Moon Has Its Say

Loping Road

31 Loping Road A quatrain never knows just when to pitch it in. Your sonnet lays out its eight-by-six, tells the iamb crew to work on it— hauls in a metaphor or two, some rhymes, preferably not too tedious, and by three this afternoon you’ve earned a shot of vodka at the pub, a round of golf, supper with Lorraine, possibly the beach. But think of us who push an endless quatrain up the hill with no idea where or how to let it die. Here comes a shifty undercover line or two, subversive or shy the way they used to be—then silences that hang like Spanish moss from a barren limb. Words, like an urgent twist of smoke, vanish. So, quatrain, let’s shut it down, fourth line closing on beat three this time. Think of a suitable rhyme: Steep words, remember me. 32 No, ending can’t be that easy. We’re here, quatrain, still on the move. I’ll kick the starter on my motorbike , listen to it rev ready to go. We’ll follow the loping road that valleys toward the bay— holding that last rhyme off, at least until the full moon has its say. ...