These aren't my Sundays

I think sometimes of Sunday evenings.
Not the Sunday evenings of now of course, nor of then. I'm not sure these Sunday evenings have ever really existed.
These Sundays are thick with rain and shadowy hills, of stretched out afternoons lying on a bed in a country room, and listening to the sounds of the white skies in the distance. Deep woods, silent rivers, churchyard days.
These unreal Sundays fall to evening. Sunday evening - about 6:00pm - feels heavy as a pool - perhaps in one of those deep woods a few sentences back. 6:00pm is full of church spires, and something vaguely industrial - certainly of chimneys anyway, exuding a smoke that tastes of factories, nostalgia and Kate Bush albums overheard in an older siblings room.
As I said, these aren't my Sundays - I have no older siblings, and owned every Kate Bush album myself.
Perhaps someone was listening to me.