A mayfly lives and dies in a day,
Flies in through a window and then,
Having spent a lifetime battering glass,
Dies, falls to the ground,
Lies among the other fallen flies.
In the intervening space of time,
I wrote a poem, I did not die,
But watched as the insects beat at the window,
Trying to escape,
For a last dying hour in the sunlight.
***
Dear readers,
Here is the second ‘I did not post on Monday’ poem today. I returned to my parents’ house in the countryside earlier this week for a brief visit, and was struck by the number of flies compared to those in London.
Kind regards,
The Hapless Neo-Romantic
The Hapless Neo-Romantic 