Sunday

2005

And this is the moment, it is something to do with the quality of light at this time.
A dullness from a day which never was truly lit,
finally admitting defeat in darkness.
The moment seems to recount every Sunday I’ve experienced,
A running stitch looping together garden centres,
the Cam glassy with an occasional swan.
Mornings suspended from the week, we hang together over tea,
Tracing the slow movements of cloud, the coils of steam ringing our fingers.
This is a type of hollow, a hide. Like standing over a covered hole,
waiting to erode into the week.
I can taste Monday in the woodsmoke and the chicken skin,
My father sharpens the knives to the tune of Wagner.

More poetry -

• 38 Words
• Crossing Paths
• Depths
• Garden
• Lake Swimming
• Nighthawks
• Northern Resource
• Office at Night
• On a frosty night, in February
• Sharp
• Tooth