Sunday on Lismore
Just outside my fence
A lamb chews her cud
Her mother – fleece almost gone
Bar stubborn swathes
No hawthorn has claimed -
Chews nearby, nose in the air
They sing a Sunday air
Staring at the first ferry
- tourist laden –
crossing on a gentle curve.
The roses, pinks, pansies and sweet William
Wave occasionally in a breeze
Not much more than a ruffle
a respectful greeting in passing
Sunday sinks into everything
Stilling – silencing – soothing
The weekday greed that gobbles lives
Burbing, farting spitting out
Can’t stops, must gos and catch you laters
Has gone
Sunday is mine
And if this palpable peace belongs to only one day
You can keep the rest.
