Sunday Poem by Win Gray

So miserable and dreary the morning awakes
In exhaustion from the perils of Saturday,
Beckoning to me the horror of the day that awaits my gloomy existence.
As I sit on the dew grass, I witness the animals roam free
While I diligently wait to make my escape
From Sunday mornings so dreary and monotonous.
Not a lover’s quarrel to keep me giggling,
No sound box to keep me dancing,
Only the smell that slowly travels to tickle my nose
Of the early morning chocolate tea,
Roast breadfruit and liver and light and callaloo being cooked
To break the morning’s fast.

I dreadfully wait for the bell to toll,
To put on my suit, to head up the hill to praise God
With the hypocrites, the one day Christians
Who dress in their finest thread
And speak the almost sound like English language,
Shaking tambourines and speaking in tongues.
Then, they walk home gingerly after a spirit- filled Sunday
So they can gossip about the garment worn by the other Christian revellers
while hush-whispering about the other church-goers domestic affair.
Indignant, I usually eagerly await the sight of my quaint home
at the foot of the hill,
So I can push the gate to my little Sunday dreary haven
And invite the smell of rice and peas and fried chicken to relax my exasperation.
As the evening comes to a close, the dreariness subsides.
The table, set for a tasty Sunday evening dinner,
Couple gulps of carrot and beet root drink, taste of the earth.
Finally finding a reason to thank God,
To provide for someone who can provide for me
While I wait for the best part of the day,
Sweet potato pudding and rum and raisin ice-cream,
Sunday evenings.