Friday evening comes again, the fading light <br />As summer falls towards the winter's arms <br />The birds adjust their song to Sabbath tones <br />From branches clothed in leaves just clinging on <br />To vestiges of life. You sit alone <br />With thoughts so nimble in their questioning <br />And dreams and longing looming large <br />But not yet smooth, the guards <br />Of all you wish your heart to realize. <br /> <br />An irritating child, again, is tugging on your jeans <br />The bitter taste on tongue offsets the comfort of your chair, <br />An orphaned thought that plays on every page <br />Across the screens and headlines of the day <br />The voices that call harshly to the air: <br />'What makes such evil beings out of men <br />Born into innocence and held in arms, but yet <br />Learning by day and in their secret nights <br />How hatred is perfected, intricate <br />As if all others of their kind were not the same <br />In bone and very DNA? ' Your child of thought <br />Fades with the light, as the weekend <br />And invitations to the family hearth approach, <br />Your ears caressed by birdsong, you fall soft <br />Into the arms of autumn and repose, <br />Believing tenderness can heal the heart.<br /><br />Frank Bana<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/friday-s-child/
