Frustration

The little cottage looked all welcoming and cosy,
The blooms from crowded garden beds had made a fragrant posy.
The winter sun had early set and dusk was all around now.
The soft glow of the old oil lamps lit corners, nooks and window.
The crusty bread was fresh and warm; the home-made soup was filling
the air with rich and tempting smell; the wine was nicely chilling.

The night should be a great success. He had forgotten nothing.
Smiling, he let himself relax – and then he heard the phone ring.
I’m sorry, darling” her sweet voice said, ‘but the car has engine trouble.
We’ll have to meet another night.” The soup began to bubble.
He soothed her with some gallant words to make her feel less guilty,
then heaved the soup pot over the fence as he gave in to frustration.

Nancy Litchfield