Ever since I began to write poetry, back in my teens, Saturday has always been a very special day: a day of reflection on the events of the week that went before and a taking stock of my life in general. It is my favourite day of the week for that reason. I have also found that whatever situation I am going through at any particular time, whether challenging or not, the writing of poetry never fails to raise my mood. My habits have become ingrained. I wake at six each morning and write before I do anything else, except perhaps make a coffee. Those first few moments before the bustle of the day begins are very precious, and I prefer not to dissipate them.

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For Saturday

Wake at first light
       to the sound of trains
in the distance
       to the thrum of jets overhead
and to birdsong muted
       by the rippling breeze :
the slow tyranny of moonlight
       has faded
into this grey dawn
       in which all my dreams
have run aground
        Shall I look back on these times
with kindly eyes ?
       Others have destinations
but these streets
       these urban woodlands
have become my exile
       Others’ lives have movement
mine has been to ascend
       the barren calvaries of love
burdened by the solitary rose
       that would not yield its petals :
the soul has moments of escape
       the body never—
this body bound
       to the dust of its dust
Wisdom tells us
       that there are two heavens :
one for the body
       one for the soul
I have attained neither
       to date
though I have listened
       with all my heart
to the breath of butterflies
       and once held
the intricacies of love
       within my grasp

John Lyons