Slow Sundays

Slow Sundays
When the crown of the sun
Rouses from the hills
But never stirs
And little ones play
Beneath their beds
Spiritual souls
Bow their heads
In blessed pews
And birds sink deep
Upon their nest
To warm their eggs
Mama kneads the dough
And kisses her bread
While papa rests upon the radio
Absorbed in his team instead
Quiet and empty
The desolate road fades
Darkness settles over Sunday
The bustle of life rushes in again