Sunday’s Flavour

Can you tell me the flavour

of Sunday morning,

and is there just one?

Is it the same for you

as it is for me?

How do you recognize it?

How does it announce itself

in those first moments of waking?

Is it the smell of bacon frying,

of toast golden on the griddle,

of percolating coffee

or fresh cheese in from the mountains,

eggs frying with onions

and spicy breads?

Does it have anything to do

with food at all,

or is it that you have the time

for once

to stop and notice

the sweetness

of flowers and grass,

earth and water

on the wind;

these things that are always there

that you pass daily, in a blur?

Are your Sundays as quiet and slow

as mine is today?

Or are they as rushed

as any weekday?

Do you notice the taste

with the luxury of calm,

or are you off and running

when the starter pistol sounds?

 

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