Dinner Belles

— Harry Lafnear

In flight from the heather,
Her daughters come,
Trains bright yellow
Over the shadowed green,
Scattering waves
Of white and colored wing
In answer to a mother’s call.

The soft games left upon the hill,
She recalls from her own stock
Of the passing sky:
The same long days
In the broken breeze
Fostered between ash and pine,
Where a wooden doll met
Every honor she could dream,
Every malady cured by council
With fireflies, and where
The wonder of all the wild realms
Beyond the cattle fence
Lost their heady grip
In the stern promise
Of a second call.

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