Sunday Morning Comes

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
Many­faced, Janus,
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
And vanishes.

 

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.

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