I Love Sunday Mornings Poem by Ian Bowen

I checked in the fridge;
enough eggs,
bags of bacon,
stacks of sausages,
tons of tomatoes,
masses of mushrooms.
No black pudding, but
never mind
I still love Sunday mornings.

Church bells through
an open window, mix
melodies with soft
playing radio
I just love Sunday Mornings

Our garden lifted its face
to a new morning sun
as buds slowly opened;
to oblige nectar-hungry bees.
I really love Sunday mornings

A newspaper fell
onto our hallway mat.
The kettle reached
its switch-off state.

You then appeared
at the top of the stairs
and whispered me back to bed…

I really, really love Sunday mornings