Broken Sunday Daydream

A poem - A Metaphor - A Love

Broken Sunday Daydream

 

Bootheels scatter gravel

As they wind down the lane

 from the station 

The trains whistle 

Howls loud and strong 

 

The trees leaves 

are starting to fall 

And the fog has rolled out to sea 

where the charter boats 

earn their trade

 

Shadows scatter as the sunlight creeps across the old victorian

She sure has seen better days than this

She once stood tall and proud 

And the up keep flawless as clockwork

but those days are now 

so few and far between 

 

Like a broken sunday daydream 

It all comes rushing back 

As if the choir switches keys to soon

 

The cracked floorboards are inviting 

Each one holds a memory 

And the paint has started peeling with each drop of the calendars page

 

theres not a single light inside 

to offer a welcome  greeting 

the lamps oil traded for some hardtack and wine 

 

Shell be as regal as before 

On this theres no need in betting 

A vow spoken in a tone in which words can be marked