Sunday

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Sunday
Sunday  whispered to the woods that they stay frozen
High above the warmer slopes which stayed hot to the South
The incisive cold bit your cheek from the North

Ranked in opposing forces, shade bore light
Light cracked on shade,
Diurnal buds pivoted on certain nightfall
Possible assassinations of frost, sleet, wind
Sheared thought so there was no memory
Of the sweat of hay, the bright eyed meadow

Nothing could perpetuate, sap stayed sullen
In the pockets of the mind’s hierophant

Only the inward looking sour cold months
Would coalesce in pictures:
The night watchman in his dim lit tent
A primus boiling some steaming liquor
Hunched and mittened hardship
Seemed the only thing Sunday could imagine

And there was some perverse warmth in the idea
Of the narrow constraints of monomaniacal searching
For a solar coin which dropped down the crack
Under the door.

 

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About Veronica Aldous

Writer and artist, Veronica is a lecturer is Fine Art and Creative Writing. Her first book of poems, 'Moon Cinema' is now available on Lulu.com. Now there is also 'Mortal' her second book.
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