Those Winter Sundays

a single's sunday bachelor's sunday lonely as the winter sun a hazy disc that tries to break through the snow and cloud bright, warm though the cold bites echoes of the deserted morn park reverberates in lonely hearts colder than the winter breeze winter's sunday a bachelor's sunday the lonely walk between the skyscrapers that hid the sun making the day drowsier more melancholy the heart, slayed bobs up and down in an ocean of wish too big for this little frame the mind tries cheering itself up with verses shuttled between different corners of the world the muse's only Sunday warmth that cup of coffee in hand and pen in hand painting the world in his own colours, fashion in his attempt to rise above the waves of Sunday's blue mozart, bach, beethoven, trail the bright Sunday rays sending a wave of joy in this self sustaining survival inspired by: Those Winter Sundays Sundays too my father got up early And put his clothes on in the blueback cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he'd call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house, Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well. What did I know, what did I know of love's austere and lonely offices? Robert Hayden