Friday, 22 May 2015



I saw them only, in mornings of Sundays,

Upon weekends, fiestas & all the fun days,

Never on mid-week, when all became busy,

The old couple had no time for hustled tizzy.


Along the Boulevard they ambled & strolled,

And ever so gently, her old hand, he would hold,

Beneath the shady trees, they would slowly walk,

Knowing each other so well, with no need to talk.


They were always neat, so very well turned out,

For them, it was what Sundays were all about,

His titfer was always tilted, at a jaunty wee angle,

Her lipstick always red & on her arm, an old bangle.


Steeped just in gentle smiles & no need for words,

Content with scented flowers & the singing of birds,

Leaving their shadows behind, in sunny old smiles,

This old Sunday couple, had walked their due miles.

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