What Sunday Said
Location
Later
there will be rain,
a gun metal sky insists.
Already winding pavements mirror
the street lamps small
tongues of fire.
A solitary walker drifts.
Past skeletal elms,
where a murder of crows
fill the silence
with dark warnings and vows
of vengeance, of ghosts unchained,
of what was and what remains,
when the only constant
is constant change.
And I should have denied or blamed
what I was, what I remain.
As small drops fall on window panes.
harsh words ache again and again.
In Sunday afternoons`
black and white certainty,
I hear Victor Lazlo
begin “La Marseillaise”,
watch steam from a kettle rise
consider love and sacrifice.
And recognise what both have done.
Then a fall of footsteps grow,
far away a quick silver poem
of church bells softly echo.