Sunday Morning In January

Only one woman goes to church -
her kids declare they don’t believe;

her man is praying for rock ‘n’ roll
- that she won’t get up and leave

the cosy, crumpled bed
with its flowery, high-tog quilt

in the tranquil, perfumed room
of a home so carefully built.

A greying chap now tidies
the snoozing winter gardens

in the few mild days
before the ice re-hardens

small patches of green,
for weeks covered in snow,

and now the weatherman says
that they don’t really know

if there’s more of it to come
in a vindictive white wall,

we will not hear it overnight
as the mute flakes fall.

Bad weather is a fine excuse
to stay home and praise the Lord

that even a beefy jeep
can’t drive through the swollen ford;

so we’re making love in shadows,
trying desperately to connect

struggling to light the fire again,
after years of stern neglect