SONNET OF THE SENSES
Eyelid hinges squeak tiredness on opening,Peter Clarke
a child cries early morning hunger pangs,
a dad groans as he looks to allay those tears.
Young boys stretch long, engrossed in their tablets.
Touch needs are enlivened by sensual
caress, as bed creaks to rising body.
A sink outlet gurgles in response,
house symphonics swell with heating pipes.
The trek downstairs is slow, noised by crockery
and cutlery, the spilling
out of cereal and milk and tea:
humans crawling from their inertia.
So begins another Sunday morning
that elders look upon with smiling gratitude.