Humourous Award Category - 2nd Place
a Petrarchan sonnet
The wharf at dawn can be a lonely place
where tendrils of sea smoke, silent and grey,
writhe along ships' hawsers which sag and sway.
Mists smother bollards to leave but a trace
of sweaty clear beads that weave teary lace.
Waves lapping on pilings chuckle and play
with shadows that wince from the newborn day:
All disappears as I sit in disgrace . . .
Presently a gentle wind laughs at me,
and I for one, fail to see its wee joke,
as I hang around, geared up for the trip.
Yet far off in the distance I can see
a following trail of yellow-brown smoke
which tells me that I've missed that bluidy ship!