Ode to the Butterfly
Mother Nature’s tender brush strokes of perfect plumb on each feather light wing
Beauty’s colourful sap for the parched urbanised throat that chokes on exhaust fumes
And buzz word ‘green house’ gases. The soft caressing puff of air they bring
When flitting past to don the gaudy conclaves of another inviting blossom of earth’s womb.
Their life’s span is short and their lifestyle simplistic as they pollinate and chrysalate
They are the true voyeurs and appreciators of colour and art and perfume and light
Their co-workers, spindly stems of thriving, pure beings, blooms and buds that neither obfuscate
Nor adjudicate but free from conscious creature choice are splendid watchmen of the world ‘til night
Their days are lazy and long, decades in mere hours to learn and love no time for fear or foe
Their deaths are silent as drifting snow and go unmourned; their memorial in new birth
In meadows of heady scented poppies and blue belled brooks flowering from the seeds they sow
Oh what a legacy! What freedom to fly uncorrupted, unnoticed, surveying the bruised earth
If they could speak would they sing a dirge or a joyous ditty to spring?
Would they resent their labours plan for a future that flies faster than they?
Or do they understand more having no understanding at all that to cling
To the past or fight the future spoils their one, bright, glorious day.
Oh flimsy feathers flitting fast
Weaving hope in life’s dreary underpass
Oh bright beauty of heaven’s canvas
Lighting softy on butter cupped grass
Oh free spirit of earth of the sun’s fire
And the whispering wind in Nature’s choir
Grace upon this gentle soul of mine
The open eyes to bathe in sun kissed crimson wine
Of floral fair and beauty bare
The miracle of nature’s prime