An Ode to Family (While Thinking of Sundays in Autumn)

Mother cooks the Sunday roast
And listens to Fleetwood Mac;
As heat steams kitchen windows,
She pours herself a glass.

Father in his garden clothes,
Shoos away a neighbour’s cat;
Then collects dead fallen leaves
To tend the hidden grass.

Carefree kids play make-believe,
No heed of these Sabbath acts,
Which few fleeting autumns more
Will be but memories long past.

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