Reason for Shrieking?

Of all hues, 

the most beautiful blue

adorns the neck

of the male peacock,

his long satiny throat

shining as if for joy – 

and repeats at the centre

of each open eye

on the fan 

of his billowing tail.

The feathers

are called unlucky,

his singular cry 

heard as a death-knell. 

Why do we feel

threatened by beauty

so extreme; why see evil 

in innocence? Why? 

Is it because, unique, 

he is far too strange?

Labelled as vain

yet he struts for love,

holding his tail aloft

with effort that tires.

He is calling out

for home and family,

parading for a mate,

as all creatures

desire and need;

not for vanity.

In his Rajasthan home

his display is seasonal, 

pre-monsoon. He heralds 

the coming of rain 

to the parched land.

When I was a child 

in cold Tasmania,

peacocks at The Gorge

strutted, displayed and cried

at any time, sounding sad.

Written for Artistic Interpretations – Beauty, day 24 of April Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads' (we could write about beauty or peacocks or both), and for Magaly's Protest and Outrage: Dark Poetry for the Cruellest Month.   

– Photo above: "Peacock at Magnolia Garden, SC" by Margaret at 'imaginary garden'.