Halcyon Days

November 5, 2014 § Leave a comment

On these days the sun
hurls itself at earth crackled
with wintry disuse, and the sky is
garish blue, and the grass
comes up patchy, mangy,
like the coat of an old hound, and
the Jacarandas fling
joyous purple up to the heavens –
a song of sanctity, a celebration;
they cushion the tar with velvet.

On these days, I am a little monk
in a little cell.

On these days, my happiness swirls
golden and indigo and turquoise and forest-green, like a peacock’s tail,
it tastes of dust
it smells of ink
it roars.

Nicole Best


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