Sunday morning brunch
Sunday morning brunch
Spongy clouds move cautiously
Sheepishly tumbling
Afraid to touch
For fear, they will be absorbed
Into the belly of a beast,
A gas giant
Much like the hairy backpackers
Slogging down narrow lanes
Sideswiping speed walkers
Dressed in lycra.
The pubs are busy
With Sunday traffic
Blocking the streets
There is still warmth in the air
If not for an edge of vitriol
In the words of tired drivers
Who swear
They can’t be heard.
It takes so long to get anywhere
The smoke of cigarettes
Hangs in the air
Is that how it used to be
All of the time?
Outside, under large umbrellas
The tables are full of families
With dogs
Nobody likes a growler
But the fluffy puppy
Making cow eyes
Is always a hit with the kids.
Drinkers and thinkers sit
Cheek by jowl
The locals always look depressed
Squeezed into corners
Backs against the wall
Wishing they had come out early
Before the influx of muggles
From the city
With their sense of entitlement.
Of course, locals thought they were
Their betters
And failed to see the irony
In their choice of adjective.
So many children
So many single-use straws
Upturned cornets
Ninety-nines left to melt
On the pavement
The bins will be emptied on Monday.
Why not sooner?
It was never like this before the war
You were either a child
Or an adult
With nothing in between.
People understood their place
It was on the front step
With their feet in a hot salt bath
To soften the skin
For a good scrape
Watching the kids play
A street game of cricket
With local rules
One bounce
Caught off the wall is out
Tip and run.
Now they expect so much
Even the cafes have a
Leather bound menu
With vegetarian and gluten-free options.
They don’t know they’re born
Is a motto so often heard
From between gritted teeth.
The Sunday market does a good trade
When it's not raining
But it is the same every week
Even the buskers sound alike
What on earth makes them believe
I want to buy a CD
When I no longer have a player
Vinyl is all the rage
It seems old rockers are back in fashion
I kid you not.
It is steam, punk.
It is a pointless exercise
Trying to find peace of mind on a Sunday
In a seaside town, in summer
Unless it’s raining
And then we just grumble
It’s too wet to walk
Too cold to sit out
Too dismal to enjoy the
Quaint English charm
Of a Sunday morning brunch
In a cyclone
Sod the bloody rain
Pass the ketchup.