eight

This errant summer morn spills over autumn earth
on wings of warming air tripping amidst branches bare;
giddy heralds curious-confused take flight to my hearth
there command I seek this day be busy as any honey bee.

Slowly grows the day to youth with laughing pace and alive
with hustly bustle that tells that abroad is more than I;
Sunday lays not here to rest but risen gently to strive
for family lunches on groaning boards or lonely shepherds pie.

Noon arrives bold and brash bursting warmth and gaiety
pouring from it’s cup of spiced smells and ovens roasting;
doors of prayer open, flooding those displaying piety
whose reverence to God delivered, themselves are to crackling.

Ageing now, day finds a sofa to lay contended sighing
amidst the children playing or music’s soothing tonic;
some to that pint place make their excuses grinning
while others find an early night within to frolic.

Twitter twitted and Facebook ranted
finally, mortals rest is granted.

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