MOTHER PEACOCK
In the late 18th century’s fold,
Corsets cinched, skirts wide, stories untold.
Araminta, Duchess Fair,
Titian locks in garden air.
Verdant realm, where secrets lie,
She sits with a book ‘neath azure sky.
Each line she traces, eyes alight,
Curious mind in evening’s light.
Pink blossom falls, a gentle grace,
Peacock struts, a vibrant trace.
Magnificent, its feathers spread,
Like sunset hues, sky’s tapestry thread.
Did it see her, inquisitive, rare?
Or merely brush by without a care?
She tucks her flower, pink and bright,
For supper waits, in candlelight.
As twilight deepens, shadows dance,
Araminta in her gentle trance.
Feather falls, a silent cue,
Nature’s whisper, old and new.
Kindness and warmth, her aura true,
A bond with nature, old and new.
Not who she fakes, but who she is,
In Mother Nature’s timeless bliss.
______________________________________________
Want to try your hand at poetry? Email me at poeticiapoems@gmail.com
Featured image credits to Breedstock on Pixabay
