Monday Sonnet: A Tapestry of the Air

No, I would not believe that brazen man
Whose autumn bronze now rusted by my street:
He said I should not breathe your air that sung,
Nor tame its winds and tend them at your feet.
I sung your glory with those winds instead,
That in their rush they'd take your memory.
Each gale was named to trace your voice, each thread
Of air I baptised part of you to me.
It's only now that you are gone, and I
In this unpeopled countryside unweave
The sun in walks, while every midnight sky
I labour in my verse, I must believe
My oracle, and face I'm breaking too
Now every wind bears fragrances of you.