Ron Pretty: Peacocks

Peacocks

When the rain came that afternoon, I

put on the Emperor. At first I thought

it was the peacock strutting on the roof

scrabbling around, but no, the downpour

was flooding the damp ground. I had

seen them earlier, the peacocks, head to head,

cock to hen in what appeared to be avian

affection. Washed away, I shouldn’t doubt;

in the downpour that followed. Lovers

caught in the rain often find passion

drying with the return of the sun. I doubt

I’ll see those birds so affectionate again.

Perhaps it was the rain souring my mood,

or perhaps just the slow movement

of the concerto feathering my melancholy.

Ludwig had no plumage. He found in his notes

a deeper brilliance than any peacock blue,

but his lady students found him dull,

perhaps a bit of a troll. Each of those

beautiful untalented girls declined his affection,

went looking for glossier birds. By then

he could not hear the rain, but saw

the tone in their faces, fed it into

the slow movement of the Emperor

while winter washed the streets of Vienna.

Ron Pretty