Now that the cars don’t race past my house,
Now that the runners and riders of human activity have rested,
Now that the folk are in bed,reading their Sunday great,hugging their tablets,
Now that the ticking of the clock is my metronome for the days pulse,.
Sunday’s my favourite day,it is,it is,it is you know.
Tomorrow the cars will race again past my dwelling,
Tomorrow the runners and riders will resume their race for life,