Lake Bolac: The Home of Bob the Bunyip

the day 'between', when nought knows quite what when to do!

friday is the cruelest day, not this year in the cruelest month,
with streets so quiet and souls so still,
even as processions pass
and cafe patrons sip abashed,
friday's purpose crosses by; all know when to take their rest.

sunday is a nascent day, when Webers flame back into life
with pickled pork and families poised,
then pickled people past their point
and afternoons that mellow bye:
sunday's hours are full and framed, sunday's minutes all assigned.

but in between? to work? to play? to shop? to watch? to wait? to write?
and do what's due while listening to
the meld and blend in sheer delight:
'why yes, it's her ... she is the goddess'.
tram bells mark time passing by and life bears on not knowing why.

these are the voyages of our everyday enterprises;
these are our sands
through our days and our lives.