Monday Morning

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.