Sunday

 
 
Blackberries dripping with Summer dew and
you with stains on your patterned shirt.
 
Alert to the possibility that death could be the death of me
I decline to climb the tallest tree and sit down on a rock.
 
I remember the taste
which was yesterday,
things taste differently today.
 
My thoughts are put down in the order of appearance
and not necessarily in the order of occurrence,
but you’ve probably noticed that.
 
And I’m watching a pink sash being slowly wound around an unbecoming sky.

© 2019, John Smallshaw.