A market-free Sunday, apple-like indolence
invades and its sense of freedom breathes
peace; there’s wonderment at the easiness
of this pace, events dove-tail seamlessly in
loose progressions where time disappears.
It’s already past midday as moments make
morning’s absence happen like a glimpse of
truant shadows coyly fleecing a cool sun
Once we would have felt ill-at-ease, seeing
no chance of profit laying waste with eager
opportunity, but those days are long spent,
washed away with the last glass luxuriously
filled and sipped in modest tribute to doing
nothing with diffident serendipity
© 9 June 2013, I. D. Carswell
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