Lazy Sunday Afternoon…
(Inspired by Leigh Lambert's painting...)
A small cluster of folks with unknown faces
Lounge leisurely, forming an island of colour
Within a lost greyscale time,
When any tangible midweek traces
Of working class endeavour
Remain hidden upon a grassy idyll sublime…
My Sunday.
Too bright.
Sun on brick.
Over exposed somehow.
Too warm.
Dad woodworking sullenly,
Entrenched in his shed.
Sawdust smell
Wafting
Into my wasted hours.
Mum 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…
My Sunday.
Too long.
Son on hold.
Overlooked somehow.
Too warm…
Pete Ray
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, or leap to catch his shots and defend his underarm spinners desperately.
He was no loser where games were concerned.
Bittersweet afternoons they usually were…
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