The last wee while, I’ve been using poetry to record the moment of a feeling, rather than for stories or such. Probably quite boring for most of you! This is one of them.
Sunday morning comes
Watching both ways
From the round door of day,
A court jester
In motley and bells
With tricks up the long sleeves
Of his sunbeams.
Sunday morning brews the day for us
Like a barrista, pours the
Sky in our eyes from a blue jug,
Clouds of cappucinno foam
And birds like sugar lumps
Two– no! – four! –no, eighteen in
The sweet sky.
Sunday morning comes as a street cleaner,
Shuffling quiet on autumn feet,
Emptying into the grey bins of dawn
The whole of the vast last night city,
Bad choices, memories, hangovers
Crumpled into gutters and chip packets
He washes the sidewalks with even sunlight strokes
Sunday morning comes in your face,
Full of watching and loveliness,
Like the world’s wound your heart up
And your dark eyes are love,
Sunday morning comes in many faces,
Dancing drunk and bleary and new,
Lastly as itself,
But this Sunday I choose yours,
And every day,
I choose yours.