Tag Archives: Sunday

A scrap of green curtain

a scrap of green curtain,
its pattern faded, its fabric worn,
kept throughout my time on this earth,
to remind me of the scent of Sunday mornings
when it was always summer outside;
in the springtime of my life.

a scrap of green curtain
folded in the bottom of a box;
its leafy design
forever imprinted on my mind.

once in a while
I hold it against my face,
inhale its musty age
and reach back toward those days
when I was awakened by the chiming of church bells
from across the hills.

inhaling the clean air,
I watched the fabric dance in time
to the jangling call
their leaves kissing, then separating,
preparing to kiss again.
with a palm on my chest
I could feel the sleepy rhythm of my breathing,
as from beneath the blankets, I made vague plans
for a new day of freedom;
I would swim in the stream, run through the fields,
play our latest and most dangerous game,
climb trees,
throw back my head, and sing like Julie Felix.

when the bells ceased their call to the faithful,
my mother came into the room;
a song from some favourite opera clean on lips
that smiled to see me awake.
later, her chestnut hair would be fragrant with vanilla
and the smell of freshly baked bread;
but not yet.

a scrap of green curtain
takes me back to when, just for a few minutes,
I would listen
to the silence of my world,
before the laughter and play began.

The Daily Post #Silence

©Jane Paterson Basil