Peacock Hill

Of Peacock Hill my childhood will

Come back to me in vivid imagery. 

Oftentimes I climb that knoll of hope to find

majestic peacocks who have thus far eluded me.

One pleasant spring day spent at ease

in the warm embrace of a gentle breeze

that glides through the trees

to gather scents from nature’s bouquet

and merge with leaves as organic debris

a potpourri swept up in this whimsical ride

to flutter, swirl and slowly succumb

as gravity reigns them down to a gentle repose

nary a whisper.

I lay sprawling out upon a small patch of grass

in a solitary haven amongst outcrops of rocks and Garry Oak Trees

whose massive trunks support many limbs   

twisting and turning in every direction,

all kinked, gnarled and wrinkly

like a tower of scarecrows entwined with each other,

Or the hands and skin of old people I see.

Leaves anew, remnants of morning dew sway,

Glisten then fade, somewhat grayed by shade.

The earth’s rotation plays the kaleidoscope today.

Huge boulders of rock adorned with moist lush moss

give refuge to tiny insects that share

their domain with wild flowers unaware

that some had been borne by birds in the air.

Seems impossible to drink it all in

even when time briefly surrenders itself.

The one constant that keeps coming around

is there are no peacocks or plumes to be found

On this hallowed ground.

© David Girard 26/03/15

* This is based on a recollection of my early childhood in Victoria B.C