Sunday Morning (Poem)

Sunday morning, cloudy:
the chatter of the television a background hum
tea cooling slowly on the bedside table.

Outside, the neighbour's cat mews plaintively
further away, the local sad hound howls despair
crying abandonment to the autumn sky.

Inside, the body stutters and falters
head and nerves on fire, gut uneasy
rising from the bed like climbing a precipice.

One day soon it will all be over:
this little cocoon with its grey mournful animals
this daily awakening to pain.

One day:
the suburbs will be a faint, puzzling memory
and the spirit, released, will flee this flesh
flee into the pearly sky or the good black earth
leaving sadness behind, and fear, and pain,
whether to paradise or oblivion, it doesn't matter

Today, though, it is time to sip tea
move as part of the world, and be present,
stroke the importunate tabby cat behind the ears

Sunday morning,  cloudy
but promising sun later; here
in this ordinary sanctuary.

- Kathy, 20/3/16