The warm embrace

of golden hour

falls

upon

the meadow.

I don’t enjoy

watching her leave

as I know exactly

what it means…

Back to monotony,

the grind,

the pain staking labour

that just makes Sunday

so much sweeter

and yet

so

bitter.

She is known

for being

a day of rest

and a day

so serene

that it lifts

all of

that

pain

from your chest. I cannot

count

the number of times

that I have said

with weighted breath

‘I love Sunday’

and

in the same rasp

whisper of

how fleeting

she is

just by her own nature.

There is a peace that comes with Sunday which I cannot put into words, rather, when I try to rationalise it…

From Monday to Saturday all I have are rushing memories

but never with Sunday.

She does not rush me.

She holds me like

one of her own,

she nurses me when I am ill

and she coddles me.

Sunday is a mother.

A mother who encourages you

to

give her the weight

of your burdens

and holds no grudge

against you.

She awaits your visit

in the kitchen window,

dusty with age yet so…

comforting.

She will never move,

she will never change.

She will always be there.

She will always be Sunday.

I enter her house

like a child

at the beginning of my life,

fearful of what lies ahead

but hopeful nonetheless.

Sunday washes me

in this blissful

comfort

I can only describe as

someone who has made peace.

A much older soul

with a kind and warming nature, untarnished by the gnashing of time.

Oh how I wish every day could be Sunday.