Sometimes in poetry, all we want is a nice image. The Romantics taught us the beauty of nature, the beauty of the world and often, left it just as that. No metaphors, no complexities, just the simple treasures around us.
That style of writing still exists. Of course it does, but in such a wide variation. There’s beauty in the morning commute, and there’s magnificence in the lunch hour at work; there’s charm and grace in the every day things, if you look hard enough.
Or, alternatively, it can be brought to you in poetry! And that’s exactly what we have here. Gearoid O’Donnell posted this to the /r/ocpoetry subreddit and kindly let us share it with our followers. It’s a simple piece, detailing a simple pleasure, in calm and peaceful poetry. I’m sure we all savour the Sunday morning, but never stopped to realise the little details that make it. There’s nothing to add – the poem speaks for itself, in volumes of luxury, sure to make you hungry for breakfast and comfort. Enjoy!
Sunday Morning, 11 O’Clock
Morning slices through the darkness
Like the opening of some long forgotten tomb.
We lay there, tucked away in silence
Between the sheets; Embalmed in one another.
Turning softly, groaning in contempt of waking,
Our tired limbs stretch out before of us.
The mid-day sun pours through the open window
Of our sitting room like honey; dripping slowly,
Encasing all it touches in its amber glow.
Steps echo on the cobbled street below us.
The city too is only getting to its feet
As I, half dressed, get up to set the table.
In the kitchen you begin to cook; eggs sizzle
In the pan; the kettle grumbles to the boil
And the warm smell of toast, envelopes us.
We sit cross-legged, plates in our laps,
Turn the TV to something simple and
Let the morning come to us.