Saturdays are

The cars that fly down Brunswick Street

A slender crack of open window

A certain kind of light

Moving voices on the sidewalk.


Saturdays are

My room, my magical Queendom

Where stories hang like webs

And colourful messes of dreams

Collide happily, spill into real life.


Saturdays are

Coffee, in a thick enamel mug

The white against bright egg-yellow

A waiter who balances it daintily

The surface swirled with brown.


Saturdays are

Dogs, and converse sneakers

And Mercedes, and market stalls

And aviator glasses, and newspapers

And breakfasts that no one needs.


Saturdays are

The words, the typing, the watching

The animals, and the sky

The thinking, the dreaming, the hoping

The loving, all things fresh and new.


Saturdays are

The church bells ringing nearby

The arched ceiling above grey heads

A rose bush, bare and crackling

Rising from manicured, short green grass.


Saturdays are

The books, the ideas and the ways

The images play around

The tree near my stairs says hello

And invisible friends gather around.


Saturdays are

The moon rising over rooftops

And the first stars, blinking confusedly

And watching the leaves whisper and shake

The essays read by torchlight.


Saturdays are

The ragged blue bunny

The dented off-white pillow

The eyes which shutter on pages

The goodbye I feel, in sleep

To my friends: so long, until next Saturday.



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