poetry draft, peacocks.

I saw two peacocks on the glass by the water pump, at Tuddingham.
Their feathers full of glory, spread over the green, their blue
chests puffed up - their heads tall, enquiring.  In position -
Sentinels of the estate beyond, the two soldiers detailed to halt
the approach of strangers.  

All around the leaves have fallen into the chaos of winters grip.
The decay of the year has taken charge of the season's temperate whip.
The brightness of the peacocks, challenging all, brights as light
in a dark place.  A bliss of birds.  This strange exotic sight.
Last year the birds were white, and seemed as throwaway as carboard
cut outs.  Not real, beautiful as doilly's lining a plate pawed
by children in a hurry.  

Do they think - these peacocks of the approach of spring?  Or do they
relish the winter, before the snow freezes their talons and cramps
the fun, of picking through the hedgerows edges for worms, and bugs.
HOw long is their memory?  Is it as long as the Finches, or the Robins
who chatter to their wives of the days events.  Or as long as the link
remains to the humans who reared them?

Behind me someone considers how to cook one, and I scream and think
of ice sculptures in the snow, and the way the feathers run out in a
circle of eyes who accuse.