Somnolent Sunday soothes my soul,
Not soaring,
Just snoring.
Even boring.
Who cares?
Not me.
Just glad I’m free,
From tragedy.
No Plath-like angst,
Just platitudes
Punctuated
By a cuppa tea.
These craggy Dale hills robed in mists
O’erlook our cottage:
Steep, sheer-faced guardians
Bathed in brilliant sun (today) .
© PB in Yorkshire, Sunday 11th October 2009 at 16.30.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem