David Welch Poet Rhyme

High Peaks Holdfast

I shift my jacket close as wind blows past,
perched upon this dull, gray massif of rock,
below the throaty call of raven’s squawk,
cannot stay long, in Fall the sun won’t last,
cold can make a man run out of gas,
but rolling vistas make a soul take stock,
ridge upon ridge, all view of cities blocked,
shut right out in my stark, high peaks holdfast.

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Harry Horsman October 26, 2018 at 8:41 AM Hi, David, love the poem, is there some part of it missing? sonnets do have 14 lines, David Welch October 26, 2018 at 4:33 PM I was doing a Petrarchian sonnet, which is shorter that the more common Shakespearean-style, at least according to the internet. So this is all there is to it. Thanks for reading.