Weekends

Where do the weekends go?
Flashing by briefly like
Bluebells in the Spring
A riot of colour in contrast
To the black and white week
Leaving behind a grassy glade.

Where do they go?
Like sudden Summer showers
Washing away the grime and dirt
Of the week's pleasureless desert
To be thrust back in
To the desolate dunes.

Where?
Like the fleeting beauty of Autumn leaves
Turning the trees to rainbows
Before a Sunday night fall
Exposes the stark skeleton
Of the working week's branches.

They pass from
Winter's warming blanket
Of sparkling snow
To the raw thaw
Of Monday mornings
And drowning like swollen rivers
They drift down to the sea
To be swallowed
With those that have gone before.

That's where the weekends go.