NEVER ON A SUNDAY
We sit here, next to the radiator,
Having shed our winter coats,
Glad of our cosy refuge
From the bitingly cold wind -
Full of grace, or so we hope,
Having fulfilled our Sunday Obligation!
Just one other table is occupied.
Over the last few months,
It has become our ritual,
So, soon we sit sipping our very hot coffees -
One flat white, one cappuccino.
Frankie smiles, even more broadly
As his quota of biscuits is doubled,
By our usual exchange.
We sit enjoying inconsequential chatter
About the events of the past week.
The blast of marauding wind
Signals the entrance of disparate groups
Who come for their regular Sunday Breakfasts -
All tastes being catered for.
For a moment we sit in companionable silence
And for no reason - unless it is a caffeine high! -
I recall the Sundays of my childhood.
Morning Mass, loving familial camaraderie,
Closed shops, empty streets:
Fleeting, fragmentary memories disperse
Yet nostalgically activated
By the aroma emanating from a Full English Breakfast -
In all its modern glory!
Not for us,
But the Hungry Hopefuls, who, as the years turn,
Will look back, perhaps wistfully,
On their Sunday Rituals.
Eileen Murray © February 2023
