Sunday had its transcendent hush.
A few bell chimes, a day that lacked
the noise of other days.
A day of stillness, nothing to disturb
concordance between the cat and dog
and the hens in their squat
under sycamore branches.
No bread in the ovens,
fathers and sons in starched white shirts.
All doors and windows open,
a day for listening to radio wisdom
or an old time waltz giving slow rhythms
to the seventh day of the week.
It was as if no-one dared to speak.
Then Sunday lost its transcendent hush,
those who never doubted began to doubt,
roads were busy with travellers
in a rush to supermarket aisles,
towns with boutiques,
happy hour in a heritage pub –
its carvery serving Sunday lunch.
From The Yellow River, Solstice Arts Centre, Navan, 2017
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