Sunlight filters through, It’s a Sunday morn,
Bringing memories of a long gone past,
When peaceful slumber was mine to take.
I loved the clouds, their fluffy white,
As they drifted across the sky,
So blue, so bright.
Dry leaves on the balcony and stairs,
Vendors screaming their ware,
Mother’s food, a pillow to lie.
Tom Sawyer, Crusoe and Blighton,
School and study all forgotten,
While Mother cleans my canvas shoe.
Love was given and all was taken,
Anger tiny, remorse naught,
Just couldn’t wait for lunch.
Swaying trees in a growing breeze,
Sea breeze coming in,
Afternoon siesta – almost there…
Sunday isn’t Sunday anymore.
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