Sunday Mass

entry picture

The strands of us all

lived in a tassled green pouch,

bound by thread and bloodline.


The house that held it

still holds my softest days

in dream sequence;


of them all, slow Sunday afternoons

out back, in the care of hands

that performed miracles -


a table for my dolls to dine,

a wardrobe for their clothes,

a seesaw solid enough


for every one of us, and we’d convene

on the oak and take turns

soaring skyward.


Under the corrugated roof, we

shared a feathered semi-silence;

it nestled there, contented


and I'd follow the dust motes

as they floated down on a sunbeam

to meet the sawdust


that carpeted the shed floor;

fresh tendrils from the steady hand’s

tempo, his maker’s rhythm.


Childhood memoriesfamily

◄ I'd Be Queen Of Myself (if I weren't anti-monarchy)

Behind The Veil ►


No comments posted yet.

If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message