Sunday
Walking home from church. Like seeing the sun rise over the week ahead, mind full of penitence a righteous child, wrapped in reverential warmth and a sense of duty fulfilled. That place of comfort, as short lived as chocolate such pleasure lies in this some selfless, priceless kind of self-indulgence in your own kind of God. Who can resist that path to an easier peace where, one day a week, the ad-man cannot get to you; where you miss nothing; where those urges play no part. Where has Sunday gone?
Digital Art
Miroslava Panayotova ©2022
©2018 John Anstie
All rights reserved
This poem was previously published in The BeZine in March 2018. The author thought it timely to present again because of its poignancy in the light of how children might be dealing with the change to their lives in Ukraine … far more violent than we have had to cope with in the West in the past two generations, by simply growing up. He is currently an Associate Editor of The BeZine.
John Anstie …
… Qualified as a Metallurgical Engineer, for the first quarter of his working life he worked as a scientist and engineer, for the second quarter, as a Marketing and Export Sales Manager, both in the Steel Industry; in the third quarter he held a variety of roles in IT and Project Management and was Master of his own company. The last quarter could well be his most fulfilling, if of least financial advantage, as a writer and singer in a small local chamber choir and with one of the UK’s finest barbershop choruses. Married with three children and six grandchildren. He is currently an Associate Editor of the BeZine.
The BeZine 