An Ode to Family (While Thinking of Sundays in Autumn)

Mother cooks the Sunday roast
And listens to Fleetwood Mac;
As heat steams kitchen windows,
She pours herself a glass.

Father in his garden clothes
Shoos away a neighbour’s cat,
Then collects dead fallen leaves
To tend the hidden grass.

Carefree kids play make-believe,
No heed of these Sabbath acts,
Which few fleeting autumns more
Will be but memories long past.

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