my white peacocks stately go
unhurried through the veils of snow
until a few with jealous mien
inspect the jewels upon my screen
and cry like vultures on the scene
whatever can she really mean
to paint white peacocks in the snow
to paint the sun with beryl rays
to put herself so on parade.
but in the light I merely smile
imagination's happy child.
mary angela douglas 1 march 2021
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