Sunday

The park is parked where it will always be,
I can see the trees fidgeting in the early morning breeze
as the larks lark about above the lake,
I take pictures which seems pointless
as these scenes are forever.

And the church bells jump
as they hear the tub begin to thump,
knowing a sermon is on the way.

Sunday sways in me
like a cornfield sea.

© 2019, John Smallshaw.