Sunday

Believe me, it’s my choice. Alarm clock set
for seven, then fumbling into wakefulness,
quick shower, snatched coffee, feed the cats—and out
into the early morning emptiness.
Some think the early morning service odd,
as well as us, a stubborn congregation
who cling to older words and find their God
in these familiar words of celebration.
We’re fewer, now, each year; grey-haired and stiff
it takes us longer, kneeling at the rail.
But something serious matters here, and if
the world of elsewhere deems us weak and frail
we know, within, our Sunday rituals give
the pattern underpinning how we live.

D.A.Prince


If you have any thoughts about this poem, D.A.Prince  would be pleased to hear them