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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