Poem: ‘Sunday Lunch’
Michael Vince, 3 April 1980
It’s hot and there are flies here and I drank A lot too much; the children scream and run Out from the tables, chasing in the sun; A driver peers and shakes his head Then points towards the fig-trees further down Where trout for lunch float idly in a tank; My neighbour fills my glass, empties his own, Then toys with crumbled ends of bread.
We drink to aimlessness, the...
