Sonnets on my Own

Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse---and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness---
And Wilderness is Paradise enow.

Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam - Edward FitzGerald's Translation.

With thoughts of you a spur to sonnetise,
I've sprawled beneath a bough, to scribble in
my workbook...words of love; and being wise
in poem-lore, I’ve brought a jug of vin.

I have some Browning sonnets (favourites
I know and love) to be my “book of verse”
and that takes care of almost all the bits
I need. I'm missing wilderness - but worse,

I miss you, singing. Bread? I’m fat enough.
I miss my air-conditioned lounge, I’m hot.
The flies and ants are bad, the vin is rough…
I must admit, aroused to write, I’m not!

Perhaps the problem is, I don’t have thou,
and sonnets on my own are not enow.