In The Small Hours: Nothing Stirs On Sundays
John Brian Leaver’s poem tells of the tick of the Sunday clock, heralding an imminent loss.
Nothing stirs.
A tick measures the day as only a case clock can
Philco burbles, a quiet hum, its dial a beacon
in the darkling room with voices from
Athlone, Droitwich, even Hilversum,
and thro’ its wavering ethereal hiss
would that be something by Sir Arthur Bliss?
Nothing stirs.
A smatter of hail bequeaths droplets to glass,
to shimmer like tadpoles awaiting a tail,
that slip, stall, then conjoin to fall
to gravity’s edict, in advance
leaving little scope
for happenstance
Nothing stirs.
Coals slip, flare, giving shape to my father’s feet
on fender, fast asleep in easy chair.
He is the steadfast family earner thro’ the week
in bib and brace, yet, Sunday sees the airing
of his three-piece suit, pinstripe, brown,
off the peg from Weaver to Wearer
Nothing stirs.
He sleeps longer now
‘The People’ crumpled at his feet.
Unbeknown, he will leave us soon
for once, a faltering forsaker
to slip away, in the small hours
to meet his waiting maker.
