Sundancer.
New weekends
Come and too soon gone.
Are only faded fragments.
Distorted.
In your face.
A life aborted.
Youth was ours.
Like everyone,
The garden party
Was always
Food left over.
Never as good
As in your mind.
Mothers` tired frown,
When the night
Had passed.
At all the clearing up
To be done.
Next year we`ll plan
It better in
January letters.
Evenings spent poorly
Walking out your weary old setter.
poem by Peter Vealey
Added by Poetry Lover
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