Huddled close by, yet far from the fire blazing.
Watching the cinders creating in the light, the night,
Hush, hush in subdued tones they sat whispering,
The vegetation surrounding them swaying, to and fro in the door,
The draft humming and wheezing through the cracks,
In the corner, the phone as silent as a graveyard,
The settee and settlers comfortable in its warn embrace,
Victorian paintings in the background, depicting grace,
The image of romance portrayed,
Tring, tring, the bell of the telephone sounds,
The wife speaks to her husband’s company,
Suspicions aroused, seething with rage and jealously,
She bangs the phone and envisages the courts,
Breaking the bond of trust that friendship is all about,
Between man and woman so clean and so pure,
Yet so distant and aloof to the short sighted.
