The Sunday World Drops to Knee-height

The Sunday world drops to knee-height;
in parks and open spaces eye-level is sky-level
as long as the sun is in it, before twilight
drops its chill catch on the latchkey evening.
Sky that drifts over the eddying buggies is not dappled:
couple-colour is the only colour – a uniform ground
for autumn trees standing together and alone.
Some couples are mother and grown-up daughter; stories
of market research, parking and ice cream play
between them, a random radio of private airs riffling
in and out of reception for the solo ham sitting on a bench
nursing a phone like it might ring, looking down
the wrong end of a telescope at the world.
To be without family means divorce from Sunday,
at least estrangement; the city which is meant
to offer the lonely escape still draws to a close
early that day; museums which distract the eye
from its interior are far away and shut by five,
which is when the evening soul begins to stir
angry at losing the day to twilight.
Only churches now open to look on God at eye-level.
And the Sunday world drops to knee height.

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