Poetry

Saturdays

Philippa Martyr

 

On Saturdays I breathe my losses

Through a square of purple silk—

God awaiting, always hoping,

Gives me honey, gives me milk.

 

On Saturdays I peg the washing

All along the blistered line—

Lunch consists of bread and butter,

Pickled onions and white wine.

 

On Saturdays I retire early

Curled beneath an afghan rug—

Reading racy worn-out novels,

Drinking cocoa from the jug.