Sunday Sunday Poem by Paul Reed

The old track is still there
And will be when we have gone
The birds are still singing
Their optimistic song
The dew is off the slate
Catch the breeze, too late;

The sunlight finds its way
And settles on our head
A cheery 'good morning'
To each 'good morning' said
And all about is calm
Nothing can come to harm;

This is Sunday, best of days
Long forgotten the week,
Gone the clamour and hurry
A little peace to seek
Let contentment fill the mind
And leave last week behind.