The Sunday Gospel

Cloudy curtains of slumber parted by the rude chatter of birds and their beating wings

I am seven, entangled in my parents’ whilst earth's perfume caresses my nose as she prepares for the brisk walks upon her

Heavy eyes roll, heavy legs hit heavier legs, and a groan of dismay echoes

Time hasn't awoken, and I remember I'm alone, so I stir, backing my thoughts and gazing upon the wall, counting its bumps and all the things I can't win against

The haunting invites ring in my head,

Come to ours, you shan't regret

But a few hours, glory is worth

Outside, the birds hold a satanic mass, and their ensemble only fears surprise

Lurking in lemon bushes turned nests, saggy lines, and red-sloping roofs, they flock and chatter, indulging in obscenities and yelling vulgarities

yellow-black, black-yellow feathers

red-black, black-red beady eyes

The slender and jewelled with brisk synchronized steps and colourful patterned bodies appear and disappear quickly with their clenched bibles and white handkerchiefs

Even the birds quieten, their mass is over

The solemn vow of silence is broken with a slip of good morning, and water overflows from my bucket,

Time has finally awoken

Down the road, nothingness sermons, and the sky has abandoned blue at home to listen

Elderly trees sway along to the melody the wind plays, occasionally shivering and releasing a flurry of little white seeds that spiral daintily in the air like tiny angels

On a saggy line borne down by clothes hangs a dishevelled grey teddy bear, fur tatty and bulging eyes crying out in agony

The wind bids it to dance, but it only heaves and curses

I wonder if I could pray for it, but would God honour a prayer of death?