Sunday Roast. By P.B. Phillips

Silvan hymn with earthen scent

Chestnut boughs and autumn spent.

Toe caps covered in rich delight-filled mire

Spy through branches, stone chapel spire.

Fire lit with kindling and coax

Set down a cuppa beside the old folks.

Shake off boots and morning’s dew chill

From the cabinet, pour brandy, at least half-a-gill

Beef tallow dripping, sizzles the pan

For roasted taters, so beloved by man.

Gather the family for the Sunday tradition

Try to read the paper, an impossible mission.

Meat, buttered veg and Yorkie puds do fatten.

Pile it up high, hide plate’s gilded blue pattern.

Gossip and gravy, the chatter does flow

No glass is left empty, for even a mo.

Leftovers, left on the counter to cool

Finish the belly off, with a gooseberry fool.

The Naughty do hide, from washing the dishes

Father fills the sink, despite his best wishes.

Regather to play cards, at kitchen table

Perfect harmony all know, is but a fable.

Wave them off home, back to their houses

Our kids with their own, new babies and spouses.