On Sundays,

 

On Sundays,

that pot roast and dumplings day,
respectful calm and quiet humour
pours into flavoured latte
followed by a long bath
perfumes      lotions      a powder puff pat.

The meaning of the Sabbath lies dormant,
prayers tucked away in drawers,
others dried out like sultanas on a rack
preserved for marriages      funerals      baptisms,
the utterance of sages and holy men.

Lawn mowers become blessed
disciples spreading the testament
from one quarter acre block to the next;
grassy knolls are prayer mats for errant knees
whilst chaste hands dig obnoxious weed.

Birds sing with chronic bewilderment
at the slow pace of things;
weekend newspapers flap
on Saturday's empty beer carton
mimicking the steady beat of butterfly wings.

Clouds form a white suture line
across a cobalt abrasion,
the sun sleeps in a hammock,
and bobbing canola fields genuflect.
Monday waits to croon the blues.