Death before defeat

It’s hard to write monstrous prose
when the sun is shining
and barbecues smoke.

Chitter chatter endless banter
syllables mouthed
when describing
menopausal matters.

In shaded guarded gestures
neighbours sign the clandestine
affairs of the street.
I, half listening,
pen the pedestrian verse;
“death before defeat”.

I stop. Four lines write themselves.

“There must have been a summer in the war,
yet only winter springs to mind;
the dead shelled over my shoulder
not enough to be killed the first time”.

Copyright D. Archer October 2011

Type something here preferably in English

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