Sunday
Sunday.
Too bright.
Sun on brick.
Over exposed somehow.
Too warm.
Father woodworking sullenly,
Entrenched in the shed.
Sawdust smell
Wafting
Into my wasted hours.
Mother cooking determinedly,
Ensconced in the kitchen.
Roast smell
Mingling
With my wasted hours.
I kick a ball,
Restricted in the yard.
Smell of mown lawn
Drifting
Over my childhood hours…
Sunday.
Too long.
Son on hold.
Overlooked somehow.
Too warm…
Pete Ray
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| MOM, THE CAT RICKY (UNDER THE DECKCHAIR) & ME... |
 |
| MOM, PROUD OF HER LANES... |
 |
| DAD PRETENDING IT WAS HIS OWN SMART WORK... |
 |
| RARE MOMENT ON THE HALLOWED LAWN... |
 |
| DAD'S SHED BEHIND RICKY & ME... |
Sounds of sawing, hammering and push-mowing are long gone now, along with the easy listening music and radio comedies like ‘Beyond Our Ken’.
Smells of worked wood, mown lawns, garden fire smoke and roast meals are much rarer these days, too.
I was generally forced to wait during summer Sundays, until my father had finished his chosen chores, before he might play cricket with me and make me fight to bowl him out and defend his underarm spinners desperately.
Bittersweet games were those…
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