Strange Memories

Sunday School

The dead time after Sunday lunch

Lies heavy on the day

And 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 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 with metal-frame windows

Hard chairs and benches

Like real school, but 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 day

And wake Mum and Dad from their afternoon lie-down 

No interest in what I’ve been doing

The hymn-singing and prayers

The collection for the missionaries in Africa

But a strained atmosphere at the tea-table

Mum walking on eggshells again

And Dad not speaking, staring into the fire

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012