Think of me on Sundays

This poem is inspired by a meme on
Yolanda's Perfectly Imperfect blog.



Think of me on Sundays.


Think of me on Sundays…

For if I were a day I’d like to be a Sunday; quiet and reflective.
If I were a time it would be night with my hours full of moonlight and wonder.
If I were a planet it would surely be the one that’s lost,
just out of reach, still waiting, borne on imagination.
If I were a direction it would have to be west for it is my spirit’s home,
to where I am drawn, from whence I came.
If I were a piece of furniture I’d love to be the bentwood rocker
on your sweet New England porch.
To calm you down I’d rock and soothe you off to sleep;
you’d be forever cradled in my arms of polished wood.
If I were liquid I’d be pure water in your streams or in sea water’s waves
or in cascades that play God’s music in their waterfalls.
If I were precious I would not be gold but would dress always in amethyst
encased in silver so I could lie at all times near your heart.
If I were a flower I’d want be the wildest rose, persistent, understated, seldom found.
If I were weather I would be in Ireland’s rain
so my drops would be gentle, soft and warm.
If I were an instrument I’d be uilleann pipes;
you’d hear me and I’d touch you somewhere deep within,
If I were a colour I’d have to steal the blue of summer skies
and be unapologetic in my crime.
If I were an emotion I’d strive hard to be thoughtful, always deep but wholly kind.
If I were a sound you’d hear me in the waves on oceanic crossings.
If I were an element I would strive to dance within the fire
that lights the blessing candle in your home.
If I were a place I’d be an island, small and safe, protected,
a haven for the poor lost souls and rescued beasts of burden on this Earth.
If I were textile I’d be the softest silk in pastels
or cotton paisley in bright colours, depending on your mood.
If I were a song it would always be the rebel’s tune
played loud and always shouting for a cause.
If I were a city I’d be Dublin, I’d feel at home there
and would sincerely hope you’d stay.
I’d be the doorway in a photo, a piece of history or art.
But if I were a gift for you I’d like to be a book,
one of wild, unruly poems, unstructured, wrapped with care, 
something to treasure all your days.
I’d hope you’d bring it out on Sundays .

Think of me on Sundays…


Cait O’Connor