Summer Sunday
On a day like this
When the sun beats down like an accusation
And the heart pants for cooling streams,
Any shade is succour to the soul.
The church beckons
With a sweet, cool dimness,
A not-quite-silence,
And a not-quite-scent.
The comfort of habit
And the distant caress
Of someone I knew once
And might have once loved me.
I know, from bleak experience
How the east wind here has no mercy,
Eroding gravestone lettering
And hasty resolutions.
But on a day like this
Every sense is wallowing in bliss.
Edward Alport is a proud Essex Boy and retired teacher. He occupies his time as a gardener and writer for children. He has had poetry published in a variety of webzines and magazines. When he has nothing better to do he posts snarky micropoems on Twitter as @cross_mouse.
Amethyst Review 