Sunday Morning Comments

A suburban snapshot of a Sunday morning these days- church is a deadly dull place, instead of rest men are washing their cars and Down the road someone is practising scales, The notes like little fishes vanish with a wink of tails, There is a possibility of escape: drive beyond Hindhead anyhow, Take corners on two wheels until you go so fast That you can clutch a fringe or two of the windy past, That you can abstract this day and make it to the week of time A small eternity, a sonnet self-contained in rhyme.