A Sunday Kind of Day

It was a Sunday kind of day when she saw me,
Seated beneath an autumn-kissed oak tree.
I feigned my focus and paid attention to anything but her,
The gall of a nearby gull and the whisper of a nearby fir
But she saw me and she saw little beauty,
Instead just a boy not fit for love’s duty.

On a Sunday kind of day with a Monday's rain,
The world's quiet protest fell and its warmth was slain.
But it coated the windows with a fine mist
And covered me in a winter's bliss.
Cosy and cold, this was the day I was sold
To that coffee girl with mocha eyes,
She captured me with a look that would make any heart capsize.

And on a Sunday kind of a day she came to me,
I was wrong before, there was more she could see.
With a spring breeze, the cloudless skies shined,
She offered a smile and I accepted in kind.
A blush of bloom in her hair and something in the air.
We talked and we laughed until the day ran out,
My life forever changed, I had no doubt. 

A Sunday kind of day engulfed with golden sun,
Grainy and full, the world's pain undone.
Amongst the daisies and clovers, she joined me in summer’s haze, 
Winning me again and again with that same coffee shop gaze. 
We walked through our memories, old and new,
Our journey of the seasons, both shared and true.

And often we’d revisit that distant oak tree,
From long before I had won her and she had won me.
We’d recall those dog days and skies turned grey,
Dreaming of their gentle breeze and browning leaves.

The seasons of us, with words too often lost along the way-
But now it’s her who makes each moment feel a Sunday kind of day.