On Sunday she always flies out
by Catrin Welz-Stein
On Sunday, she always flies out,
looking down on the green and
gold planet from above,
the metal-grey ocean,
porpoises and whales
leaping with joy and love,
a coastline of old growth forest
wrapping the shore like a glove.
On Sundays she always flies out,
seeking the far horizon, the great beyond.
She spirals and circles on the vortex
of air currents gentle and wild.
She is looking for somewhere to land
that is sweet and mild.
On Sundays she always flies out.
She wears her best dress and rides on
her favourite bird.
Before twilight falls, she hastens
to travel back home.
She could find nowhere better,
which makes Sunday flying
feel slightly absurd.
Found this in drafts and decided to post it, since it is Sunday. Smiles.
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