Sunday

He said: For sport I'll write a villanelle,
With verses five and quatrain at the end
And it, with style and wit, shall rhyme as well.

One Sunday morning, caught in boredom's spell
and looking, sad, at other lines he'd penned
He said: For sport I'll write a villanelle.

A story, neatly bound in form, I'll tell
And to that form, the meaning will I bend
And it, with style and wit, shall rhyme as well.

Two lines refraining, tolling, as a bell
will call my reader always to attend
He said. For sport, I'll write a villanelle.

It shall be tragic, magic, fay and fell
And through, a wistful wantonness shall wend
And it, with style and wit, shall rhyme as well.

Without a muse, the poem's just a shell,
But form still serves the poet in the end.
He said: For sport I'll write a villanelle,
And it, with style and wit, shall rhyme as well.

Tim Robinson  27/11/2010