Sending Sunday.
If I could send
first sounds
on Sunday,
you’d hear
ice hiss
melting dawn sun,
grass stick-lick
a boot frost sole,
and ear to pillared
tree trunk,
soft chords chime,
as red stems
rub together.
Sheep bleat,
mists drape a
dream-pallor
and whisper up
a pools white breath.
Sun-rays slant
through hedges,
the chit-chat bird-bar
tuning in our day,
and city sounds
that skirt the week
are crumpled,
silent at my feet.