Track 12 of the album Small Kindnesses · 2020
Sunday Afternoon Has Nowhere to Be
“A roast in the oven, a neighbour's mower stuttering, and absolutely nowhere to be. If the record has a centre, it's here.”
singer-songwriter · sunday folk · parlour singer-songwriter · 4:08
Lyrics
The roast is in the oven and the window's open wide A neighbour's mower stutters, then it settles down outside The paper's on the armchair, half the crossword left undone There's nothing that I have to do for anyone Sunday afternoon has nowhere to be It stretches like a cat across the floor The clock can keep its counting, it won't bother me Sunday afternoon has nowhere to be And I'm not wanting anything more The light moves on the carpet, slow as honey from a spoon The kettle's on its second time, the radio's out of tune I think about the Sundays when my mother hummed and baked And how the whole house held its breath for her sake Sunday afternoon has nowhere to be It stretches like a cat across the floor The clock can keep its counting, it won't bother me Sunday afternoon has nowhere to be And I'm not wanting anything more Tomorrow has its lists and its alarms Its early trains and tired arms But this hour is a blanket and a chair And I am folded up inside its care The shadows reach the bookshelf and they climb the spines of blue The dog sighs in his basket, and I sigh a little too Someone's frying onions down the lane, the evening's on its way But let me keep the gold a little longer of the day Sunday afternoon has nowhere to be It stretches like a cat across the floor The clock can keep its counting, it won't bother me Sunday afternoon has nowhere to be And I'm not wanting anything more Nowhere to be Nowhere to be Just the light and me