Mark Heathcote

(22/03/66 / Manchester)

From The Plumage Of A Peacocks Eye


At the centre of gravity
Is weightlessness…?
Calm before the storm
Where the eye of silence
Listens in on all that’s been
And, gone before…

It ravages and it slays—
Seldom do we let our blood
Course free of its flailing plumage
But when we do… We learn to fly.
Without; a drop of blood being spilt.

From the plumage of a peacocks eye
We see at central things we cannot espy.
It glitters and it gleams, only to die.
And yet fallen its brevity transfixes all
However large however small…

Submitted: Tuesday, December 24, 2013
Edited: Tuesday, December 24, 2013
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