Sunday
Hundreds of dinners are cooking
As I walk through the estate,
Hundreds of husbands are drinking
In the local pubs with their mates.
Pork, beef, lamb, and ham,
The aromas mingle with scent
Of roses that brightly span
The gardens of most of the men.
This morning the church held few,
Too early for this generation,
I sat on my own in a pew
And sang with the small congregation.
Hundreds of children are watching T.V.
Oblivious to all around,
Their mothers are working so mercilessly
Through the love that keeps them housebound.
Others are doing their duty,
Firemen, policemen, nurses, airmen,
Soldiers and sailors give fully
Their lives for the citizen.
And I with my hunger on Sunday,
As on hundreds of Sundays before,
Am glad that it isn’t a Monday
As I walk through the kitchen door.
January 1990.
Copyright by D. J.Brennan, Derbyshire.
