Smithereens Press Chapbooks Left Behind by Colm Scully | Page 11

Come Sunday

Come Sunday we will gather
in the hills, Upstate.
Friends and neighbours merging off the highway,
parking our Oldsmobiles in polite lines.
Where the bramble bushes flower,
under the ash trees, we discard our clothes.
Carry our bags and tents across river,
higher to some old cabins out of sight.
Warm bellied sun shines on our torsos,
wind in our tonsils, laughing at bad jokes.
Down dry pathways, beside small rivers,
moving in twos and threes, in flip flopped feet.
‘What’s that kiddo? See, in the bright sunlight.’
Glistening silver trout on the water’s edge.
‘Dang it’s gone.’ Just in a moment,
naked shadow passing beneath the bridge.

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