Sonnet to the Last Poet
When all the poets in the world are dead,
the voices mute that once were crystal clear
inciting us to laugh or weep or sing,
silent is the air, like molten lead.
In graveyards by the sea, soft winds we hear
foretell the coming fall without a spring.
In belfry’s high the bells Nine-Tailors ring
to mourn the loss of poets from our sphere.
If even one is left alive, the poet’s role
will be fulfilled, we’ve naught to fear.
For All, the conscience kept; the penance said.
For Everyman, the one will pay the toll
and with that voice will speak from soul to soul
when all other poets in the world are dead.
by Bet Wooten
Delta Branch, MS