Weekends


In the afternoon sun
the asphalt road shines like an ice rink;
flanked by green trees that
cast black shadows,
helped by the breeze
they flutter slightly,
soundless articulation a symphony for the deaf
My memory brings me
the aroma of curried
chicken and rice,
but since it is Friday, it will
be smoked haddock, boiled potatoes and
stewed carrots  

Still a twenty minutes drive,
before getting home,
shadows merge with the evening and
the ice rink is a memory