For many people, Sunday morning is traditionally dedicated to religious expression, to church services and Sunday school. To some others it’s a time of newspaper reading and relaxation after a busy week. Or perhaps a chance to swing a golf club in pursuit of a heavenly score.
But for this column, it’s very special because it’s a chance to share our love of poetry with you. So whenever you might be reading this, please pour a cup of coffee, butter a croissant and enjoy some noteworthy Sunday Morning poetry. *** * * * Poet Glenn Varona leads us off with a piece about this very Sunday morning being the first day of Autumn.
He may be a little early in suggesting Indian Summer, but a glance out my window confirms that some leaves are already turning. Indian Summer, just past Days of intense and suffocating heat All the land groaned, a restless Earth It is over now, the days getting shorter And they are getting colder A row of maple trees in the distance Their colors changing from light green To a riot of reds, yellows, browns And they are starting to fall Ever so quietly as the world changes Sunrise just now Marking the leaves of the trees In light and shadow, bright and dark That only Divine artistry makes possible All is still, after last night’s wind Sunday morning and the first true day Of Autumn * * * Irish poet Louis MacNeice has written a sonnet called “Sunday Morning” with his own set of observations. Hindhead is a scenic village in England.
Down the road someo.