It Is Saturday

It is Saturday, and sure, still abed at 7am suggests 
no incentive to mill with the thronging milieu, & yet 
a fire percolating sweetly allays fears I’ve not even 
stirred; there’s no need to huff and puff or abet any 
intransigence sired by holding this day scared, it is 
reserved for ‘footy’ you could say - unchastened by 
redundant harrumphs and maidenhead jeers yet to 
be articulated as its worships’ due currency 

Saturday - and sol rises and sets on games played 
in fields of endeavour, teamwork and team bracing 
exchanges of fêted vigour, fellowship’s ventures in 
contest blessed expressions constraint to arena’s 
time & place, rigours of expectancy maintained - it 
is, needless to say, a discourse with heaven 

But I digress, it is Saturday regardless; on a drear 
day there’ll be an equity of warmth in a TV lounge 
where sport takes primacy, & she, confident - less 
any conflicting motivation - freed unto creativity of 
a kitchen if it conspires as such, or so much more 
discretely left unabashed to Netflix commiseration 

For me its completely Super Rugby Saturday 

© 17 May 2014, I. D. Carswell