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Sunday Afternoon

The pale sapphire of the morning sky moves
gradually to darker shades.
And gently streaked with lacy white,
denies  the sun a place to hide.
What colour is the sky above?
In subtle change of hue it merges dawn and dusk,
each  hour a different canvas, none more perfect than now.
The sun, more yellow now than  was the fiery globe of it’s rise,
is warm and comforting.
Perhaps a little more than comfort,
For stinging arms and legs foretell a fretful night.
This Sunday afternoon.


The silvery tinkle as the little waterfall,
empties into the inky blackness of the pool.
Perpetual motion in this private world;
this miniature of man-made aquatica.
It’s residents, orange and gold,
flash as they rise to seize a tasty insect morsel.
The water surface ripples,
accentuated by the magic of the liquid prism.
Summer visitors push their heads through the surface tension,
where half submerged, they sit and croak.
While others more adventurous,seek the warm stones to bask.
This Sunday afternoon.


Little birds flutter and hop. Sparrows hesitate,
uncertain if they dare investigate the little house on the pole.
But brave Finches fly off victorious, their beaks full of seed.
Up above the Crows and Magpies squabble,
their raucous shouts persistent,
each trying to oust the other from a nearby tree.
Determined, they swoop and dive,
to drive them from the favoured branches of the willow.
while she shows off her new summer clothes,
her foliage fresh and green - the latest canopy fashion.
And with drooping arms she tries, like a crinoline,
to reach the ground and hide a private place.
This Sunday afternoon.


Below the bickering birds, a ribbon of gardens stretches out,
multi-coloured patchwork like Joseph’s coat.
Thousands of heads in every hue sway to a welcome breeze,
amid patches of green and brown;  gardens next to gardens.
they join side by side to form a piebald river.
It flows between  rows of gardeners castles.
whose terra-cotta roofs with smokeless bastion towers
sprout thin metal branches reaching out to to the world.
Winged travellers sit heavily on these precarious perches,
and  rest awhile before flying off once more.
Unerringly they swoop to the next stage of their journey.
This Sunday afternoon.


Nearby can be heard the sound of children playing,
bright laughter and dark tears.
The whine of machinery, as somewhere a lawn is assailed,
already smooth as a bowling green - needlessly denuded.
Somewhere a yapping dog sets forth to chase the noisy bike,
it’s bark overwhelmed by the screeching engine,
its eager legs out-run
A window opens; a secret entrance to a teenage world;
submerging  what peace remains beneath a thumping beat,
its message loud, loud, loud, for some who cannot bide to hear.
And those who come from another age trudge wearily inside,
hiding, safe, behind the double glazing.
This Sunday afternoon.  


Another Sunday, sadly gone the way of most,
no more peace, no quiet to enjoy the scene.
The book remains unread, a paper dart to find the place,
the pen laid aside, all inspiration gone.
But the birds, the fish, the frogs,
and the neighbours’s cat as well, remain unmoved.
Perhaps somehow they didn’t notice,
or could it be they just don’t care?
But anyway, it no longer matters, for look;
once more the sky has changed.
It’s coming on to rain again,
This Sunday Afternoon