I miss the sound of a mothers call,

On those early Sunday mornings. 

Crusty eyes and crusty lips

That bespoke a night well spent.

The scent of brewed honey lemon tea

Wafting through the oaktree door

Honey with a touch of cinnamon,

The smell of sweetness and spice. 

The pitter patters of four footsteps

Rushing to reach the dining table

Chairs scraping across hard-wood floors

Mixing with sounds of innocent laughter

I miss the chaos of an early Sunday morning

As I sit in this lone apartment

Missing the sound of a mothers call

And the sharp spice of honeyed lemon tea