Draft in the author’s style. This poem was written for Poet of Blossom to sit beside the author’s own readings, and is waiting for the author’s review. The commentary is a working draft too.
The Sunday bells were ringing when you slipped your hand in mine,
And the church bench felt like heaven, with your fingers laced like vine.
The hymn was old and simple, but you sang it soft and true,
And I forgot the sermon, for my heart was tuned to you.
We walked out in the sunshine where the pigeons crossed the square,
With the scent of frying dough and lilies in the air.
I thought about the mercy that had brought us both to this,
A morning full of blessings and the plain sweet gift of bliss.
Some hold that love is lightning, and some hold that it's a flame,
But I have found it also lives in Sunday's quiet name.
So ring the bells forever, and keep your hand in mine,
For every day with you is Sunday, and the world's bells divine.
Poet of Blossom · Hear it on the channel ↗
Commentary
A quiet Sunday service is the setting for this love poem. The bells, the hymn and a held hand together make an ordinary morning feel holy.
“The Sunday bells were ringing when you slipped your hand in mine,” and “the church bench felt like heaven.” The hymn is “old and simple,” but the beloved sings it “soft and true,” and the speaker forgets the sermon, “for my heart was tuned to you.”
Outside, the couple walks through a square with “pigeons” and “the scent of frying dough and lilies in the air.” The speaker feels “the mercy that had brought us both to this.” Some say love is “lightning” or “a flame,” but this love “also lives in Sunday’s quiet name,” and “every day with you is Sunday.”