by Denis Glover
On Sunday the air more naturally breathes,
time stands a little still, and plants put forth
luxurious green life, sweet sunlight weaves
warms patterns on the wall facing the north.
No urgent task, we set our hands upon
hoe, spade or spanner; back-fence gossip tells
epic of artichokes, career of cars; later on
air falls under the heavy yoke of bells.
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Last updated September 22, 2022