Sunday Evening

it’s when the blossoms dare
     to stand in bold opposition to
  that military dome

                it’s when raindrops cling
                      like a Southern Cross
                  to the webbed needles of a casuarina’s fork

              it’s when feathers and wood
                    rattle with the flight of birds & their songs 
                         are held aloft by scaffolding clouds

    it’s when the concrete path gleams
               secretive as silk;  supine
            to the narcissistic sky

                   it’s getting home to the smell 
                          of cooked apple and wet dog
                        and the warm, yellow clutch of electric lights

14 thoughts on “Sunday Evening

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