Song of Sunday

A driech day, and nothing to do
bar watch starlings fluchter
over soup bones
left on a plate on the grass.
All forenoon broth-barley, marrowfat peas
swelled in a kitchen jug,
and I soaked stamps, corners
torn from polite white envelopes
in a saucer till they peeled clear,
neither soggy nor stuck: 'See,
watch and not tear them, wait at peace.'

	There’d aye be women
	In the kitchen, brisket
	lashed in string, tatties
	peeled lovelessly, blinded
	pale and drowned. See if one
	now nicked herself
	with a paring knife
	and spellbound, the house froze –
	only now, hacking back in
	through privet and rowan,
	toward my father caught
	mid stretch and yawn,
	my wee sister playing Sindys
	with the girl next door,
	could I wake them
	with something alien
	and lovely
	as a kiss.

       - and we’d be called to eat
       what’s put in front of us: potatoes, meat
       till we could get down, Please.
       There were African leopards on TV
       and Songs of Praise. My stamps were dry,
       the odd USA, Magyar Poste exotic
       among the tuppenny-ha’penny pinks,
       the wee lion
       rampant in a corner
       and after homework I’d have time
       to turn to ‘Great Britain’
       like I’d been shown,
       fold and align the edges
       with the orderly squares.
       Press. ‘Bedtime!’  There.