Peacock Feathers

 

Artist Patricia Allingham Carlson

Peacock Feathers

Often, my days are dull, covered in dust.
Hours creep forward in grey tones,
moving in a robot-like fashion,
wind wafting an everyday smell—
while I yearn for the fragrance
of exotic flowers.

I yearn to take spoonfuls
of undiscovered, lush land,
with fern trees stretching
feathery fingers
to touch me with a tingling thrill.

I yearn to hang out
with poets, and philosophise
on a café terrace under starry skies,
where the wine whispers secrets
and transforms us into soulful sages
with young hearts, beating wildly
to the rhythm of the flamenco.

Our scarlet skirts wave away the world’s worries.
I yearn to pull the curtains back,
to jump on the stage of life and say,
Hey, if this is the last role I play,
I’ll do it with verve.

I’ll fan my peacock feathers.
I’ll play a drumroll to wake you—
to a zest for life,
like a tulip bud longing to open
and show its colours.

Go and blossom—
and I will too.
Now, dig out the courage.