The Golden Days

Sometimes the Golden Days
just are - the air is
a mere zephyr, birds
are quiet, and the burning
skin on face and arm
a pure delight.  Wisps of
hair move gently and
gauze-like clouds drift
across the azure.  Only the
roar of a Typhoon, circling
the expanse of Scotland
and curving back disturbs
briefly the silence, but it
cannot affect the sun, rich
and golden, pouring
all its heat on me.  The
freedom days are most alive in this:
out-of-doors in full rays,
breathing is expansive, I can
walk beyond my desk and 
my arms outstretched do not
touch a wall.  The hell
of work recedes in the distance
like a huge ship slowly
sinking in a stinking sea.

One Year Round The Sun
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