Another Sunday Poem by Paul Butters
Another Sunday
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
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5/10/2024 9:41:17 PM # 1.0.0.1119
