A Ramble through My Sunday Morning Mind.

Waking at the snap crackle and pop of dawn
I listen to the broken consort of birds,
(The honk of geese imitating horns),
Interacting with a Jacobean love song
Broadcast over chimney pots and plane trees
By my neighbour`s FM radio.
Sunday morning in North West Four,
The wind westerly, the bright clouds scudding,
And purring cars replacing the click of heels
Rat-tat-tatting the weekday pavements
As the fallen scions of Eve totter off to work.

Late last night I heard the clack of boot steps,
A flock of students flouncing home from Camden
To reconvene their ceiling imploding party,
Or to flop down softly, a heap of disengaged puppets
Flung at an unmade bed.
If I were fourteen I would be right there with them
Making out to be a manly cocksure twenty,
My mouth a megaphone hoarse with madness,
My eyes glued to the girls.
Soon enough those kids will be as bald as I am,
Self mocking and unkempt, bemused at being old.

Tomorrow, it seems, is just another Monday,
The day of the week God never pronounced good,
His mind already fixed on twice blessed Tuesday,
Adam still dumb in the lifeless clay.
And so I can waste another hour or two in bed,
Another hour listening to my neighbour`s FM radio
Before I dawdle soulfully to 9.30 Mass
To sing out loud the words I sometimes believe in,
That is when my mind is awake,

Because only when singing am I truly alive and awake,
Awake like a dancer to subtle syncopations,
Awake as the birds when they signal the dawn.-
Oh well, time to get out of bed and make ready,
Two hours singing carols should perk up the day.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
8th.-10th.-22nd. December 2018.