Apr/May 2004 Poetry Special Feature

On Sundays,

by Barbara Defranceschi

Art by Janet L. Snell


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.


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