Day

Solomon Grundy,
Born on a Monday,
Christened on Tuesday,
Married on Wednesday,
Took ill on Thursday,
Worse on Friday,
Died on Saturday,
Buried on Sunday:
This is the end
Of Solomon Grundy.

What shall I do today? A brand new day, fresh and clean, with 24 glorious hours stretched out before me to fill however I want. It reminds me of having new exercise books when I was a child at school, all those clean fresh pages waiting, waiting to be filled with whatever I like.

In the Daylight, I could only catch glimpses of the Nuances out of the corner of my right eye.

Sometimes an »off« day arrives. When I see one of those I think it would have been better if the day in question had been a non-day, aborted or erased. The only really good thing about the opposite of a good day is that you can hold it up to the light and make an example of it to identify better days when they arrive.

At length, the day began to glimmer, and the stars to grow pale and dim.

The day being very warm and the street a quiet one, the windows were wide open; and it was easy to hear through the Venetian blinds all that passed inside.

A DAY, the 24 hours that we have each and every rotation of the earth. What do you do with your DAY? Do you waste it away earning the almighty dollar? Or do you take time out to enjoy life with family and friends. Who do you give the best part of the DAY to, your boss or your family? Shouldn't we be playing all DAY and then working at night? Just something to think about on a dreary and rainy DAY.

It was the beginning of a day in June; the deep blue sky unsullied by a cloud, and teeming with brilliant light.

‘FAR I hear the bugle blow
To call me where I would not go,
And the guns begin the song,
“Soldier, fly or stay for long.”

‘Comrade, if to turn and fly
Made a soldier never die,
Fly I would, for who would not?
’Tis sure no pleasure to be shot.

‘But since the man that runs away
Lives to die another day,
And cowards’ funerals, when they come,
Are not wept so well at home,

‘Therefore, though the best is bad,
Stand and do the best, my lad;
Stand and fight and see your slain,
And take the bullet in your brain.’

A.E.Housman

»Cling my peach, lemon yellow!« shouted Frank Leigh Dearie while brandishing a dowsing rod at the sun, pendant in the sky like an immense cinnamon red-hot. »Now and later, you magpie cheat, you metronome!«

every day she takes a morning bath and wets her hair, wraps a towel around her as she's heading for the bedroom chair, it's just another day.