The Vision of the Peacock
The gambler in the aviary
watched a peacock spread its tail.
If he tried to paint such colours,
he knew that he would fail.
Later, he opened his wardrobe,
to find all his coats were frayed,
but was pleased with what he had won
with the last card he had played.
On Mississippi river boats,
in casinos late at night,
he had silently let all other players
think the laws of chance and luck
they had precariously got right,
until in the final moment,
he had made his secret move,
and for the first time he was noticed,
a winner with nothing left to prove.
He was still searching for that clock
that told another time,
and he knew everything would change
when he heard it chime.
And it would be for the better,
and not for the worse,
for those who won through treachery
would find things happen in reverse.
And the vision of the peacock,
the beauty of the colours in its tail,
told him that though his aim was high,
there was a chance he would not fail.
And he knew it all depended
on the hand that spun the wheel,
and the cards that he was given,
and what he wanted to make real.
The peacock in the aviary
taught him with its tail,
though high beauty had its mystery
towards it he could sail.