Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Oct 2012
In plain sight, the Peacocks ply their wearisome
Colours.  Awkwardly swaying, pompously preening,
They cry to be seen, their voices are gurgling  
And gawking.  The direction of wind is their vane.

Overhead, in the secret sky fleet wings are truth.
In the sun the searing Falcon is seeing all;
His talons turn and steal away, they are mad,  
Playful fingers— they will have their say.
Seán Mac Falls
Written by
Seán Mac Falls  Éire
(Éire)   
1.8k
     Seán Mac Falls, --- and Tilly
Please log in to view and add comments on poems