Sunday people bike or walk for miles
under a wool-grey sky, a warm-as-bread breeze
rising over rocky outcrops, dissolving the day
fast as holy wafers on tongues.
Sunday people leave bad news, regret
moored to the past, set sail
on a sea the colour of slate,
smooth as pebbles whispering
over and over Pors Pin Bay lapped white
as the gull wheeling to a fleck of dust.
Sunday people stop to breathe
pine and larch crouched on a far hill,
patient as dogs waiting
for a shepherd’s call to gather flocks.
And here with you sketching
I watch the turn of your hand,
pen gliding paper – ink taking hold
of clouds, a skein of geese,
a fishing boat ploughing through water
like the prodigal son coming home
to thickets of oak and sloe, a table laid,
forgiving moments hauling us back to earth.
© 2018, Kerry Darbishire
Editor’s note: This poem is included in Kerry’s new poetry collection, Distance is Sweet on My Tongue (Indigo Dreams, 2018)