February

Garden City, is quiet
after all it is Sunday afternoon.
The Cathedral bells are now quiet
and children are inside,
no longer running around
the war memorial,
elders chastising
mothers harried
and wondering if the
casserole du poisson
will ruin, leaving
young faces debating
whether to cry or protest.

Upstairs, she sits,
the sun is out, her balcony
so much better, with
the canopy of glass,
she dips a toe,
and sips a sip.
She likes Sunday.
No longer a trial to her
but a day where
she can smile at the
young girl she was
and the sinner she became,
according to Tante Solange,
a woman with padded corset
and rules.

She likes biscuits
dipped, slipped between the lips.
She likes the fact
that her son
will bring the children
and she can tickle them
with favours
and watch them savour
a life, well lived.



Poetry by Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
Written on 2025-02-02 at 16:04

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