I burnt the gown on icy ground in a frost of fire, a cold wind blowing You often said black wasn't our colour I've only now remembered. Peacocks and Sun From Signal Hill Monument where stone-bodied settlers overlook the Harbour, wild goats come crowding down the road, heading for the valley. They call to each other like lost lambs, frantic fathers, distraught mothers. A peacock, escaped from the SPCA, struts into our garden, trailing the scent of sandalwood, colours of India. Mist from the South fingers the valley, strokes tree tops, gathers into wraiths, wet, silent, white.
Wood pigeons cease soaring, nervous fantails disappear.
We hide inside to read and dream of sun, hot sand, elephants and peacocks.