Is your life like a fly buzzing at a window?

It was an idyllic holiday and therefore strange that it should lead to such a bleak poem. I blame Holub.  Our beautiful stone farm house, remotely situated in the undulating farmland of the Dordogne was delightful but there were too many damn flies!

The Fly

.

A fly buzzes at a window

The only window

The door is shut.

.

Continually, persistently it head butts the glass.

Occasionally it circles the room, landing here or there.

.

Then back to the window

The only window.

The door is shut.

.

(This poem is copywritten)

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