Sunday, June 24, 2012

WINTER EVENING by Alta Booth Dunn, 1932

Ma, evening's long when you and me
Sit down together after early tea,
An' all the boys and girls are gone
Which way and yon from home. And yet, I swan
It's sweet—jest like it used to be
Come forty year ago—don't you agree?

That buzzard northwind from its pinions is a-flingin'
Big whitish feathers down, down—some call it snowin'--
But by the fire we're comf'table and warm
In our snug house on our own farm.

Here's this new radio a-singing'
Like sixty, Ma, and you a-sewin'
Pert as sixteen; the black tomcat's a-purrin'
Content, while yaller canary's churrin'
A bedtime tune to old Fido a-snorin'
In dreams 'bout rats before the oak log roarin'
Up the fireplace flue. . .
But say, I ask you, Mother,
Now is there any—any knowin'
How each would miss the other,
If one of us alone—er--should be goin'
Out where Eternity's great gales is blowin'?