Clove halls
A wrecking
ball
in a hall
of cloves,
shroud sheets,
bric-a-brac.
Horses stand
untethered,
gallop the grey
corridors,
hooves clipping
tiled floors.
Spaces blanket
careful sound,
a repartee tucked
into sunset
splashed in
colour vivid.
It’s a
ripening of distance,
essence of
what is loved
and left.
Streaks of glitter.
Citrus scents
of orange peel,
spilt
cinnamon permeate air,
transport knowledge
only so far.
The horses
flick their manes,
watch
morning wake up
from inside
bay windows.
A collection
of geese rise,
wings open
like envelopes,
and
suddenly the sky is filled
with accents
of white.
Copyright
Vickie Johnstone, December 27, 2020
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