A Sunday in Britannia

woman holding a mugK. Barratt

 

 

An orchid has bloomed

Against the steel grey

Behind my window pane.

In the other room,

A child practices her piano

Scales and then switches

To a pop ballad.

The cup in my hands

Embraces me with its

Balmy iridescence.

It rains.

The neighbour’s kids

Are coming back from

Their football game.

Outside a man walks his dog,

With no hurry, covered

Head to toe, like

A colourless Santa Claus.

He will open the door

Soon and ask for a towel

For Butch, our chihuahua.

We will have chicken sandwiches

For lunch, the three of us,

And talk about other

Winters, other rains, other

Times safe and cherished only

In our minds. And the child

Will roll up her eyes. And we

Will laugh, and end up playing

One of her fantasy-meets-cute-

Meets-death games.

And Sunday will unfold slowly,

Amid a shared movie and me-times,

A thriller read, a poem written,

A sofa nap, the rain subsiding, a pot

Dinner to keep the bones warm.

And night unrolls, and

Sunday is almost gone

Over these isles of yore.

And as the child and the dog sleep

And husband and I cuddle

On the sofa for our period drama,

Lights turn on and music reverberates

In the court of Oberon and Titania.

 

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