Sunday On The Trail Poem by Ron Secoy

Gentle breeze scurrying across the porch
Sun softly baking his old cowboy bones
Nearly napping in the cane rocking chair
The day of rest for Grandpa Buck Jones

The calico cat caught his eye
Stretched out in the afternoon sun
Buck's mind just mosied off a bit
To the things in his life he had done

Stumbled across his time on the trail
He thought those days would never end
One sunrise after another, year after year
Back and forth, and over again and again

Sundays were the best on the drive
Slept until the sun had come up
Baking powder biscuits always ready
Coffee just tasted better in the cup

The trail boss always took the time
To ask about home and his family
There was always a story in the air
Time to relax and no better way to be

Someone would read from the Good Book
Some of the wranglers would gather ‘round
Somewhere out on a vast and open prairie
Some time to let your worries wind down

Chow consumed at your leisure
A dip in a slow moving stream
Time to talk to the Big Trail Boss
And a chance to ponder a dream

His reminiscence was interrupted
By a grandson of the same name
Seems he had a scowl on his face
Saying Sundays were really so lame

Grandpa led him down to the stream
Where they swam and splashed away
Dried out just in time for Sunday supper
Tommy changed his mind about the day

As at the table they had all gathered
With food and family all in array
Thanks Lord for your many blessings
And the joys of this the Sabbath day