It has 14 lines but it's not a sonnet, I wouldn't say.
The returned
The wren, again, calls green-blood men
to prise a paean from their pen
for memories of long-dead scions
of long-lost far-west Europeans
who couldn’t stay but never left.
The turf unearths their bardic bones
which chant their widely spread unknowns
of legends gained in twists of mist
then lost to every stone unkissed,
each cliff unclimbed, each sea uncleft.
The alder, pine, the oak, the birch
wrap arms around this broken church
which fills with lewd and loving air –
the birds, the trees, they sing, to share.
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