Sunday Sunday

 

Sunday Sunday

 

Once upon a time, fifty years ago

when I was younger – well, there was Sunday.

The sullen seventies winds blew

doctrines of unappealing church bells

across dockyards, spiritless syllables

of ancient grizzled undertows.

If you searched, you’d have found us

at Aggie Weston’s Royal Sailors Rest,

Albert Road, for a pound a night or so,

the very place after Saturday at Castaways.

No manic Monday about Sundays then,

in the television room, Brian Walden,

interviewing old, tired men,

Jenkins, Callaghan, Wedgewood Benn,

to Nantucket Sleigh Ride by Mountain,

a year out from Bowie’s ‘Fashion’

which would somehow be the difference.

Maybe you’d avoid a bible study group,

always voluntary, of course,

unless, like a sprat, you were caught,

and, if that was the unhappy case,

prepare your knees for hard talk

for her humble tiled floor was brutal,

keep any look neutral, resistance is futile.

And all the shops were always shut,

repeats of ‘Black Beauty’ or ‘Follyfoot’

not nearly enough to keep

hungry like the wolf from the door

on the hunt for five loaves and fishes -

we'd just scream with boredom, wait,

bristling for matinees at The Drake,

or The Friendship Inn to open,

for just one hour, twelve until one

after sermon’s done; final hymn’s sung

serving cockle shells of vinaigrette prawns

pineapple and cheese, impaled onions

and just half a pint of bitter, please.

I’m glad it’s all over,

my friend, just think yourself blessed

those wretched Sundays are behind us now;

that door bolted and shuttered

unless you are by some means found

in primeval lands of religious nutters.