In the stillness afterwards
they saw a sea between them growing,
listening to a drowsy fly —
bouncing against the window pane.
He opened up the window
to let a breeze release the fly;
she closed her eyes, sensed a scent of nought.
She didn’t hear him leaving,
but knew she never cared for summer.
Kim want’s us to write about insects at toads. There is something utterly melancholic in the desperate sound of a fly bouncing against a window-pane.
Also linking to hedge 55, and poetry pantry.
May 26, 2018