There is a smell of Sunday

There is a smell of Sunday

Slow cooked beef

In red wine sauce

Lazing on a lounger

In the summer sun

A noisy neighbour

Tending a

Barbeque brunch

In the garden

With man tongs

Firelighters

And sausage sizzle

Family favourites

With a little Stormzy

Drifting in the grime

Carried over from the pub

On the corner

Children laugh

Before they cry

Barroom preachers

Deliver a sermon

On brotherly love

Whilst their wives

Nurse the bruises

From Saturday

Football in widescreen

Cricket on a village green

But not in England

It is in lockdown

Mid-winter sunscreen

As butter melts

In a cast iron skillet

Australia is out to lunch

On a lazy Sunday

In November

As close to an English

Roast

With all the trimmings

As you are likely to get

This side of the Equator