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Summer 1939
by Peter HumphreysWe were mellow
with talk
and dinner.
Out on the lawns,
our dog
chased butterflies,
as the gardener
weeds.
Mary was deep in gossip
of friends,
lovers,
teachers.
The summer had been
long,
hot,
not long, it seemed
until we were called
back
to the city.
Little did she think,
of the fear
that was growing;
murder,
prisons,
rumours of war:
a war of rumours.
Through the crystal glasses,
the sun shone,
into wine,
ashes and diamonds.
Jeannie looked out.
Across the lawn
the dog
had killed
a butterfly. 08/07/2005 Posted on 08/07/2005
Copyright © 2024 Peter Humphreys
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by George Hoerner on 11/19/17 at 09:22 PM Ah, but what could we humans about killing? Not a tiny traveler, a butterfly, 'pash' a butterfly. Far better, bigger a human! In fact 'humanity' as we aren't worthy of the small space one takes up. Time for the dogs to turn on us and I prey they win! But leave those poets such as you to show what so few of us have learned to do. I love the write from two years before I was born! Hope all is well! george |
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