Sonnet For Yellow and Disease

Trickling slow like pus down a sickly wound

Under sunlight which once ageing love blest –

Amongst green fields where youth did not dare brood

Upon the day when Time (aggrieved) would test

Passion with age and curse the hand which sought

And held and traced that skin so pure and firm.

A virgin place once plump with verve now rots –

Conquered by hands, then worms, which all but squirm

To reach at first, that lands sickly fiction

Of love eternal which cannot be lost?

Trickling slow like pus upon infection

This ailing love dying  (now free from lust)

Curses the sun and the colour yellow

Of hay, of pus, and atrophy mellow.