Sunday Poem by Julian Takali

Our soft, feint Sunday cities with even easier winds
Breezing the townsfolk
Runs us all vacant of mirth to settle the days ahead
Rid of the clamor and crowds and cool chaos from days ere
A man left but to ponder as guest
Of what men are left

For the silence is a mystery, myth at best

How could our town be silent when the rooks are astray
When the songbirds croon
Quiet you, quite me - no quiet out of all we musnt be
On this calm, fleeting Sunday