It's Still Life

The Perfection of Pine

It’s May.
Enter the flowers, and the perfection of pine.
The boys are by the lake – it took days
for that fish to take the bait.
And a perfect silk of clouds screen
the burn of the sun,
the hours hung slow, though less we
couldn’t have cared. I remember
Mum hung the sheets drying on the line,
the cloth made white by the bleaching sun.
That was our last summer before
you left home. Left for the jungles,
and the heat, and some heroic war,
never again to come home.
But it’s May,
and I wait in the perfection of pine.

Sunday Whirl Words for #251: enter flowers fish took screen less burn hung last cloth made white