Sunday Morning Praise And Gold Crested Waves

Sunday mornings came
with quiet reverence
and thoughtful reveries.
A faux temperance,
in a world of devilry…

Time moved slower, softer
and lazily
on the street.
Birds sang sweeter,
and twittered
in the yard, oblivious
to life’s ebbs and flows.
Foot prints were set
with purpose,
not plodding, and
the day was
a little more serene,
a little more sacred.
The sun glinted gold,
gently touching the crests of waves,
filling the swirling, dark water
with brilliant light.
Vagrant, white clouds loitered lazily
before passing by.

A calm, accepting look set deep
behind her eyes.
Sundays were a time
for cleaning,
purging the darkness
from life and night.
She always hated
their chilling screams…
The screeching, wanting meows
of a cat in heat –
feral, feline monsters
with dirty souls, fearfully unclean.
Her work,
her contribution,
Her burden –
Ridding the world of those
hated mewing monsters,
Cleansing retribution…
It was so simple,
and took so little time.
Every morning the traps
were full,
how easy they were to catch,
to cull…
Evil svelte souls.

She carried them,
to the gold crested waves,
ignoring their pleading,
questioning meows.
Without a thought,
she sent them to deep,
watery graves.
One by one,
Sunday morning done…
A never ending,
thankless job.

Walking home,
she planned the day.
First laundry and dishes,
then praise.
Photographer: Rebecca Askew

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