Sundays
This, the first sad Sunday
when leaves puddle into corners,
rain sweeps sky,
air tastes of ashes
and all those other Sundays
stack up like tins of salmon
waiting for Sunday visitors
who never come.
The day becomes uncertain
in the dimming of the light.
I take comfort in drawing curtains,
lighting lamps, settling into night,
waiting for the stranger at my door.
*Helen Hill enjoys writing and performing poems. She has been published in local magazines, websites and anthologies and had her work read on local radio.