It was a day break from the chores of toil <br />My neighbour with broad glasses have a soil <br /> <br />A gleam of light when enters slowly and flashes <br />All the papers rolled like white stacks amazes <br /> <br />There in the hold of the fingers that almost <br />A feathering touch sways like glossy frost <br /> <br />Nothing comes sometimes the wind pulls in <br />And the old curtains raises feebly and swings <br /> <br />The sky would peep and the clouds spreads over <br />My neighbour be in friendly way artfully deliver <br /> <br />In the noon when everything like an infamous death <br />The choir sang and the cross stood there in a resolute faith- <br /> <br />Wherefrom a thought arrives and leaves an ocean there <br />And the secrets of land floats like a feather in a rogue air- <br /> <br />My painter neighbour ne'er stop and puts his fingers down <br />His Sunday lazes and snugs within the easel for a mystic drown <br /> <br />Though I ne'er disturbed him for a while <br />He explored every Sundays to those dreamstruck miles.<br /><br />amitav mazumdar<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sunday-painter/
