Sunday nights
are for murder,
something cosy
with a hint of spice
to get your teeth into,
not gory enough to put you off
your cocoa and cake
but with enough blood
and interesting corpses
to give a certain zest
to the cheese and biscuits.
It’s an essential bridge
from the deep deep peace of the weekend
to the frantic hurly-burly
of the working week
so sit down, switch on
and don’t speak.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem