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The feathers lift —

like the sudden coming on

of sprinklered water

over imperial lawns.

Breeze-shaken and trembling —

you imagine the break

into a drift of wish-flowers.

Now the fan streaming with dance —

(imagine the face of an

angel

streaming with light

in an annunciation).

It's the lovely silver rippling

at a saint's fingertips

in a Kirlian

photograph.

Seeing

is like entering a Chinese shop

full of paper lanterns —

voices whispering

in room after room like hands

caressing ceremonial silk —

until you come out

to a farmyard screeching of hens.

The peacock is just another sad rag-picker

about a cage, alone

in the knowledge of its palatial etiquette.

It goes about the pen-muck

with the geese,

the yokels of turkeys

slubbering at scraps, hen-poor.

Its chicken-wire existence

against which the tail, at times,

flounces itself

like a Marie Antoinette

or glows like

Saint Theresa among the stricken.

Have a great Sunday my friend! Much love and blessings

Nabeel