Bug

I've spent the morning in a friend's garden, at our monthly poetry group meeting.  We'd decided earlier that next month's theme will be insects,  when this happened. 


We sit, in an awkward silence, 
Trapped by a peculiar British sense of politeness, 
None of us wanting to mention
The bug entangled in your hair. 
For each beat of each moment
It struggles to escape the silvery strands,
We try to focus on our faltering conversation,
Our attention hooked by the blackness of the bug 
In its fine gossamer trap,
Each of us hoping it will free itself
So we won't have to intervene. 
Abruptly, one of us cracks, 
Reaches out to free us all, 
And we breathe our secret sighs of relief.

© Copyright 2024. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved 

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