And If Poem by Frank William Finney

And if he were sitting here
on this sinking summer evening-

he might set down
his spy novel
and call the children
to the porch
to watch the yellow-red sunset
over the pond.

And later, in the darkness
No doubt he'd fill his pipe

and with the sudden scratch
of a wooden match
send streaks of light flickering
- as they flicker now-
against the black wall of trees

while his smoke-trails
sailed over the
black lapping water.