The hum of the halogen oven
roasting Sunday’s lunch
could lull me to sleep
with the incessant ticking,
tiny gale of air and its warmth.
The golden light flooding
the kitchen intermittently;
reaching for me
with tender rays of light,
hoping to draw me closer
and cradle me in thoughts
of every Sunday I have
ever lived, to reassure me
they are quieter now,
slower now, in order
to keep me safe.
Photograph & poem: © Kristiana Reed 2019
Available internationally
There really is a safety kind of thing about Sunday lunches. Well-penned!
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