Early Saturday Evening
In a red brick North London street
Endless drab grey rooftops,
Tall clay chimney pots.
Pavement thick with autumn leaves,
Kicking up golden snow from trees.
Heavy backyard washing lines,
Blow in happy times.
Drawing collar up against the rain,
Key in the door,
Laden down with chips for tea,
Snuggle down in front of TV.
In praise of rainy autumn Sundays with cups of tea, roaring fires and toasted muffins – in praise grey skies brewing heavy weather. In praise of leaves strewn across the ground in thick, wet clumps – in praise of nights gradually drawing in, heading home in the smoky dusk and enjoying a nip of good whisky to keep out the cold – in praise of everything autumnal.
In praise of small town Sundays, when all the shops are closed, and whatever the need, you’ll just have to wait until Monday morning.
In praise of boring, lethargic, stay-at-home Sundays, when time floats slowly by and we forget what it is like just to have the luxury of time to waste.