From my fourth floor window, I watch the fishmonger pass by, his voice like a ragged tear in the fabric of my Sunday calm. In this newlywashed morning even his cry seems clean, unbloodied.
On his head he carries a basket loaded with fish. As I watch, a first shaft of sunlight breaks through the clouds and the scales of the fish gleam silver.
Seeing his thin, barechested form plodding along under the weight of that reflected radiance, I think of the history that walks unnoticed through our streets. Of the glory of our lost kings, our vanished empires. Of all the discarded and broken crowns lying at the bottom of the sea.
He turns the corner and disappears. I am left with only this empty road, its surface still slick with the morning's showers.
Down the road someone is practising scales,Categories: Whimsy
The notes like little fishes vanish with a wink of tails,
Man's heart expands to tinker with his car
For this is Sunday morning, Fate's great bazaar;
Regard these means as ends, concentrate on this Now,
And you may grow to music or drive beyond Hindhead anyhow,
Take corners on two wheels until you go so fast
That you can clutch a fringe or two of the windy past,
That you can abstract this day and make it to the week of time
A small eternity, a sonnet self-contained in rhyme.
But listen, up the road, something gulps, the church spire
Open its eight bells out, skulls' mouths which will not tire
To tell how there is no music or movement which secures
Escape from the weekday time. Which deadens and endures.
- Louis MacNeice, 'Sunday Morning'