This is an allegorical poem about the way we assign great value to things we consider precious, but the same things lose their value once they are available in abundance.
If peacock's feathers grew on tress
Each thread a shimmering fibre--
The colours perfect
The green blue and the almost black
with flecks of sprayed gold.
What if the feathers were all leaves?
Soft and supple to touch and feel against the cheek,
would children still lock them inside books?
And free brittle memories in later years?
Would fallen feathers feel trampling feet?
And would tuned ears miss the rustle of crunching leaves?
Would they line our walls?
or fill our downy beds...