The day a machine

writes a sonnet

to woo a woman’s heart,

 sees the spark

of a single line blossom

like the early stages of an apple,

not ripe for picking, still flowering,

the early bud of inspiration lose

and gain, a single moment when dew rises

and is perched sweetly, temptingly

on top and in sight, when a machine sees that

and looks upon it with cold dead eyes

in appreciation

then I shall know I have been beaten;