Hundred Year Sunday

Darkness looms like a shroud over the face of day
The stillness of the room exposed
by the movement of writing hands
Leaves outside move fractionally
insignificantly in the wind

Small lights shine in quiet corners
as Sunday ends and privation draws near
The room; a homage, a shrine
to all that the writer finds dear
And the little ones outside still live
in the freedom of their youth
Unfazed by the looming darkness
hardship still a hundred years away