Sunday Morning

On Sunday the air more naturally breathes,

time stands a little still, and plants put forth

luxurious green life, sweet sunlight weaves

warms patterns on the wall facing the north.

No urgent task, we set our hands upon

hoe, spade or spanner; back-fence gossip

tells

epic of artichokes, career of cars; later on

air falls under the heavy yoke of bells.

- Denis Glover


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