Sunday Prayers

 

Yesterday was Sunday.

It was our Sabbath;

a walk in the park

in the autumn sun;

and that was the day

right after Shabbat;

and that was the day

after their Jumu’ah;

Three days of prayer,

of reflection and quiet.

We walked in the park

with family and friends

in the autumn sun,

then sat in the riotous

children’s playground,

which wasn’t so quiet

for they were reciting

at top decibels

the age-old song,

the ode to pure joy

straight from pure hearts.

Gran and I sat down

right next to a couple

with a babe in a pram

whose brother and daddy

were wearing a kippah.

I’d a lump in my throat,

a mind full of bad news,

and I thought to myself:

should I just say “hello,

it’s a nice day isn’t it!”,

but I didn’t.

Was it me not being British,

-for once?

So I held my tongue,

perhaps through fear

of saying something stupid

such as: “isn’t it awful

what’s happening over there”.

There was a hole in my heart then

where joy should have been;

so I filled it with love,

and saved it for them,

and anyone else,

who needed a hug.