Antony Nicholls
What Sundays Are For
His anger’s on a low burner. Fat spits off
sausages, burnt skins splitting raw. Later,
over the sport, or lifestyle supplement
eyes interrogate the single-glazed glass
but won’t blink. Enough sleep’s owed,
half a century’s worth, for tiredness.
From his neighbour’s son, the taunt
of another sonata: if it’s not Elgar, it’s
just a distraction, a pain in the Bach.
Who played that? His wife’s friend, Sonia.
She died alone. In that candlelit back room,
at the reception, he stood, cried unshaven.
It wasn’t Sonia. He can’t remember.
Outside weeds prosper in the clay garden.
Unused clothes-line shivers, propped up.
Page(s) 81
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