The peacock beside the gravel path

An original literary non-fiction-style account of walking through a garden containing clipped hedge figures.

The peacock stood beside the path without casting a shadow which resembled a peacock. Its body was a dense green mound, its neck a narrow curve and its tail an ambitious fan of leaves. Behind it, a gardener held a photograph at arm’s length. He looked from the picture to the bird, then put the photograph in his pocket with the air of someone closing a difficult conversation.

Further on, two clipped spirals flanked a bench. They were almost identical, but one leaned slightly towards the seat, as if trying to overhear whoever sat there. I chose the other end. A robin landed on the leaning spiral and immediately supplied more movement than the entire formal display had managed all morning.

The gardener came along the path carrying a bucket of trimmings. I asked whether the peacock was finished. He looked back and said that he had reached a stopping point. There was a difference, he added, especially when the thing you were shaping continued to grow. A small twig protruded from the bird’s back. He noticed it while we spoke but did not return to remove it.

Near the wall, an older hedge figure had lost the clear outline of its original design. It might have been a rabbit or an attempt at a teapot. A label beneath it said only that it had been planted by a former gardener. The present one said visitors enjoyed arguing about it. He had no intention of settling the matter with his shears.

I passed the peacock again on the way out. The twig was still there, making a small untidy claim beyond the intended curve. The gardener had gone to lunch. For the moment, the bird was being allowed to keep its own idea of a feather.

How does the writer present the balance between control and untidiness in the garden?