Sunday Morning

Lying awake,

eyes wilfully shut,

watching the kaleidoscope

patterns inside the lids.

Listening, alert;

birds chirrup,”Phillip! Pirrip!”,

discussing their expectatations

in the matter of worms.

Waiting alone,

plans carefully made;

dreading the thought of visitors,

strangers inside the bailey.

I hear the kettle whistle,

perhaps I’ll get up,

after all.