Sunday School
The
dead time after Sunday lunch
Lies
heavy on the day
As
Dad sits reading his paper
Absorbing
sordid stories of fights and fornication
Waiting
for the house to fall to rest
While
Mum does her fussing about
Busy,
but pre-occupied
About
the coming afternoon alone with Dad
Washing
and wiping my face
Polishing
my appearance
Dressing
me up in Sunday Best
Transforming
a rowdy child into a little angel
A
reflection of a clean and happy home
Sent
off through the silent streets
On
my best behaviour
To
walk to Sunday School
And
receive religious education
With
a promise of sweets if I’m good
And
possible Hell if I’m bad
But
definitely no tea
And
early to bed
A
Methodist Chapel built in stone
Soot-blackened
among the houses
Its
grey doors opening into the hall
Of
musty smells and dusty floors
Little
classrooms, metal-framed windows
Hard
chairs and bum-aching benches
Just
like proper school, but far less fun
Cheerless
and comfortless
To
hear stories, miracles and parables
Chapter
and verse
Read
from a black-backed bible
Of
Jesus and Jerusalem
Mary
and Joseph
And
the meaning of love for one another
Then,
topped up with goodness for another week
Running
home for some play before tea
To
strain the last dregs from the drowsing day
And
wake Mum and Dad from their afternoon lie-down
No
interest in what I’ve been doing
The
hymn-singing and prayers
Nor
the collection for the missionaries in Africa
But
a strained atmosphere at the tea-table
Mum
walking on eggshells yet again
And
Dad not speaking, staring hard into the fire
No comments:
Post a Comment