Gone Fishin’
The frogs are croaking
In C, D and F sharp,
With the odd B flat for good measure,
Blowflies not a definite A.
A high C tweet of swallows
And the soft mosquito whine.
No other sound
Save the blur of a gentle wind
Blowing off the lake.
All else is silent. None here
But myself and the fish,
And frogs and flies,
Mozzies and skimming swallows.
I’m home again,
Drowning in traffic sound,
Intrusive, abrasive,
Omnipresent, overpowering,
Killing all attempts at quiet thought.
I sit in my car,
Try to exclude it.
I can’t! I can’t !
Oh, for the loud frogs of yesterday!
© Vi Woodhouse
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment