Slow Sunday

Slow  Sunday afternoon,      
little movement in the street.      
Lunch and Yorkshire pudding      
washing up dripping dry      
nothing more ‘til tea, butch      
the dog asleep, as soon shall I.      
       
 There was no work on Sundays      
we did not drink ,Chapel tonight,     
doze beside the apple tree.      
Next door children play games,      
who can scream the loudest      
favourite for today.      
       
We had no telly then,        
and there was a war,      
latest  twenty years or so .      
The next ? Who knows?,      
I do, but only now.      
History for those  who read.  
    
They do not listen,        
but then I did not.