It's Sunday morning
The sun breaks through
the drawn curtains to wake me
The cool breeze carries
the sound of a pigeon cooing
sweeping in through
the open window

I crawl from under the duvet
and go across the hall
to the bathroom
It's quiet now except
from when the newspaper
slotts through the letterbox

It's Sunday morning
The smell of scented shampoo
and fruity conditioner
awakes me from
my semi-conciousness
as I wash my hair

I flick from breakfast TV
to old sitcom to music channel
as I eat spoonfuls
of milky muesli
mixed with country crisp cereal

It's Sunday morning
My dried hair blooms out
like a blossom tree in the spring
but I quickly tie it back

I then put on my trainers
while my dad
grabs a bottle of water
and a camera and we set off
The radio singing out
old familar classics

It's Sunday morning
Rain, wind, snow or sun
We always go
whether it'll be
to forests or lakes
or fields, hills or parks

Call me nature girl, wild child
- maybe it's true
The child inside me is set free
I can run down a hill
climb up a tree
or lie on my back in the grass
to look up at the sky

It's Sunday morning
We stop at a small cafe
to sit and sip coffee
and split a cherry muffin

All sorts of people pass by
Eldery couples
and small children in wellies
And from dog walkers
To serious hikers

It's Sunday morning
After an hour or two
has gone by
we're tired and hungry
We head back home

I fry sausages and fingers
Warm up baked beans
And make fried egg on toast
The back door wide open
So the fire alarm won't go off

That's my Sunday morning