Sonnet #42 – on the Greenman

Sonnet #42 on the Greenman He hides among the stories past, but now he has no name, with stonied face he laughs or scowls, or smiles, or frowns, or cries. Who knows what mood is carved by ancient cunning crafts? The wintered face of death after the fall The brambled, twisted, tortured crown of thorns … More Sonnet #42 – on the Greenman