by Brendan Strong
Sunday comes dripping from the kitchen tap
Pounding a knife – balanced on a bowl – against
The base of the kitchen sink.
Coffee cannot come quick enough. Tip toe
Down the stairs. The girls are playing there.
Dolls arranged in a square, one of them in
Trouble: reminds me of something I read
About crows holding court, murder the guilty.
They learn so young in beams of light breaking
Up the early morning. Kettle goes on
Radio goes on, bread goes in, toaster goes on.
From the corner of my eye – a movement outside –
The winter sun glaring at the window.
They are talking about war. They are at war.
Caught in a forgettable flood of light.
Sunday will pass some day, but even then
There will be Monday left to mourn.