On The Verge, Sonnet in Tersa Rima Options

[Guest_Kathy_*]

On the Verge. (Tersa Rima)

Alone. It's hot. Familiar odours steam
in tones of brown. The trees are breathing earth;
dark humus wets their feet and mine. I lean
against an ancient Puriri, its girth
a measurement of time. It gathers me,
absorbs my consciousness, and gives me birth

into another world ... of energy
that flows between the trees; that fiercely sweeps
in elemental chaos from the sea
and buffets, sneers at innocence that sleeps
upon the threshold. Help! A sly green man
is giggling in the leaves, enchantment creeps

in tangled vines. I run while yet I can,
my feet inspired by panic, lent by Pan.



NB: The Puriri is a New Zealand native tree.