Monday Morning

sanchopanzalit
Oct 14
1 min read

Daniel P. Stokes

I unfold my chair

to face the sun, but

something’s out of kilter.

Before I settle down

to pad and pen, I have

it twigged. There.

That stream of water

falling to the sea

was yesterday a cliff.

Of course. Sunday.

No greenhouse irrigation.

Sabbaths set aside

for leisure and reflection.

Like funerals –

prayers and early pints,

small talk and secrets.

His sisters on a mission

to prise out who got what;

my sister relieved

of Sunday dinners;

and me, po-faced,

suspecting – no

quite certain – I’d

lost all chance of

expiation.

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