“What day is it?” asked Winnie the Pooh
“It’s today.” squeaked Piglet.
“My favourite day.” said Pooh.
A Sunday is such a bittersweet day,
Where joy is shadowed by Monday not being so far away.
Where you lie and the clock doesn’t seem to slow,
As the time and the dials pass faster than you know.
It appears to be the shortest day of the week,
And it never quite fulfils the relaxation you seek.
But nevertheless, you’re grateful still,
As it starts to recharge, some of your will.
If you’re lucky you lie, with the person you love,
And you cosy with blankets, and thank stars above.
Although time flies; you wouldn’t have it any other way,
For what would a week be, without this bittersweet day.