Percy was a peacock of somewhat ill repute
As he swaggered down the Greenway
In his multi-coloured suit.
He wasn’t on the best of terms with all the residents,
His calling card was visible
On everybody’s fence.
The gardeners were demented, as he plundered all their crops,
Then he danced away and sniggered
With delighted little hops.
He screamed his indignation at such a lonely life,
But no one answered Percy’s calls –
To be a loving wife.
He pottered on the patios and some could not resist
In feeding him a crumb or two
To help him to subsist.
He rewarded us occasionally and with a careless flick
He swished aloft a jewelled arc
A glorious feather trick.
But whether friend or enemy, misfortune has occurred
As on the plains of Campton
The remains of one large bird –
All skeletised and pick quite clean, as Farmer Bill describes
May soon give rise to fantasies
And some quite eerie vibes.
That shadow on the high church wall – is that a trick of light?
The measured rooftop footsteps
That occur at dead of night
Could that be? … No I don’t think so, we have to turn the page
For Percy has succumbed it seems
To Fox – or perhaps old age.