SUNDAY TREAT

nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson)

The dark sky
Autumn tears frozen
The clocks hands
The hour chosen
Ticks softly
Velvet and silk
The empty cup
The unopened milk.

The shadows cover
The ornate arch
That spans the kitchen
Night times start
Fruit that lives
Inside a bowl
Old fashioned tablecloth
Of grandmas home.

The biscuit tin
It revives
Memories of
When a child
Sundays visit
Chocolate biscuits treat
An empty chair
The house to speak.

 



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