On a Wednesday dear reader, our Sundays are a full arm’s length away. By Wednesday in the work-a-day week, the sweet Sunday of last weekend, lies beyond the grasp of our fingers.
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Yet Wednesday owns a famous crest. A knoll which affords a view of the Sunday that waits for us just down the track. And it’s a welcome panorama dear friends.
And can you see next Sunday from your station? Can you see that enchanting day, can you feel her gentle breeze, can you sense her Sunday ease?
Can you discern another April there outside your window? Can you, from the last Wednesday in March, espy the new month waiting at the end of this week?
And can you see the soft Sunday morning mist floating on Flat Road, or on the river, brown and serene out Oakhampton way, see it curling through the Tucker Park poplars, or bending softly through the humpback hills of Gresford?
Can you, from your Wednesday chair, smell the magnificent festival steam trains down along the railway track? Can you smell the cut Sunday grass of a Lorn nature strip? Can your nostrils catch the scent of a Levee café breakfast or a batch of home-made Telarah scones?
And can you today, dear reader, reach your hand for a soft river-town Sunday. The kind of day that Maitland knows real well, the kind of day that let’s you breathe. And can you touch the handle-bars of your bike as it glides across from Phoenix Park?
Can you clench your paws upon a football or basketball, upon a late-in-the-season six-stitcher and make the pill talk like you did way back then? Can you feel the grass, hear the whistle, taste the roast and see their faces from here, from your little Wednesday hill?
And Wednesday owns a promise of better days ahead: of Thursday, plump and penultimate, less business-like than others. And Friday, her discos, the day to let go, to forfeit thy labour, and maybe watch a play, eat a choc-top, go to a bowling club raffle, eat a bowling club tea.
And Sunday’s sister, Saturday. And what a day. A day to raise your heartbeat, to run in the park at Walka, for Netball and yoga and cycling and coffee and barbecues and books and punting and promises.
And like Sunday, Saturday owns a truth understood best by our kids, and the kid inside us all - that we are not machines, but human beings. And such days are what we do it all for…
From the apex of Wednesday, the lights of the we-are-not-machine-days are there in the sky, flickering gently, calling to us…
And we’ll be there soon dear friends, in the fog, the fields, the streets, deep in the heart of nowhere, in old river town… And so it goes…
Goodnight.
