Every Sunday

photo of brown and white short coated beagle lying on a pillow
Photo by Dina Nasyrova on Pexels.com

Every Sunday

For ever since I can remember,
Sundays were the worst –
Growing up in villages,
We longed for them to burst,

With their uptight prim and properness,
And Sunday-Best remarks,
With nothing ever open
’Cept the churches and the parks.

We longed for the tension to flare up
In an all-out family war –
But of course, they never would,
They just went muttering as before.

Our parents either marches us off
To hymns and holy dread,
Or took a lazy breakfast,
With the Sunday papers spread.

Then out to visit relatives,
Or kicking round at home,
Or maybe made to wash the car
Or read some worthy tome.

It was a Blue Peter sort a day,
Vaguely seen as good for us
In that terribly wannabe middle-class way,
With an Archers omnibus.

Then come the evening, on the box,
Some cop show or a flick –
And sometimes there were arguments
On who would get to pick.

Even as kids, we felt the sense
Of desperation in it all
With families forced by ritual rest
To slow down to a crawl.

With Monday looming over,
And with homework to be done,
We clung on as long as we could, until
Early to bed, no more fun.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s