ALAN WHALLEY'S WORLD
THE modern-day Sunday morning is all bustle, sporting fixtures and supermarket shopping.
But Joe Jones, the Sutton memory man from Irwin Road, looks back to a quieter, more leisurely sabbath in penning this nostalgia-filled little poem about his childhood recollections:
Sunday morning was so serene,
No noisy traffic to sour the scene,
Silence broken only by a rooster's crow,
The plop of a newspaper pushed through the door.
No footsteps betray the workers' parade,
No cries of barrow-boys at their trade,
Church bells ring for those who worship,
For others the country's a regular trip,
With families dressed in their Sunday best,
Out for a stroll was as good as a rest,
No thundering aircraft to drown the ears,
A day to forget all the sweat and tears,
To sit and read the national news,
Or do a crossword, solving clues,
To relax in a rocker, dreaming away,
Of better times to come some day,
No supermarket to break tradition,
The corner-shop was the local mission,
Sport on Sunday is a pleasure to come,
Though not so pleasing for everyone,
Sunday is Sunday, a day commanding respect,
. . . but with time they'll follow the rest.
Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.
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