mhall46184@aol.com
A Summer Afternoon in Which,
by the Grace of God, Nothing Happens
Old chairs just anyhow across the lawn
This morning mown by a grass-proud old man
Who with his book and chair and pipe and dog
Rules his demesne with glasses of iced tea
In this an afternoon of indolence
And as the shadows shift to mark the hours
Even Poirot relaxes his little grey cells
And merely strolls to apprehend the thief
Oh, happy summer, tea or lemonade,
And lazy hours just dreaming in the shade
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