Sunday, Sundae

This day is so perfect,

the way it falls on the wooden floor

in gentle yellow bars;

the way the pine furniture

takes on the depth of

terracotta.

 

The way the cat chooses

a bright patch of carpet,

his shape oozing long,

his colour perfectly in tune.

He blinks so      so

slowly.

 

The way the trees stretch

every finger to the distant

blue ceiling and the galahs

bow and preen to their

cracked reflections; the iced-over

birdbath

 

The way the chickens’ heads

bob ridiculously and they croon;

the way the air strokes your cheek

with warm fingers and fresh cold

concurrently – like fried

ice-cream.

 

 

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