I know nothing of butterflies,
 but I envy
 their embroidered wings,
 the way they gather
 and ride the currents
 of forest and field.

 I remember, too,
 those museum trips.
 The dust cases 
 full of latin specimens,
 pinned to faded board,
 their colours crucified.

 They belong in green places,
 where they face the wind.
 Where we can watch,
 as they gently touch
 and rest with wings folded,
 like waiting sails.

3 thoughts on “Butterflies

  1. Love that, Derek – quite hard hitting beneath its gentle surface. And that’s a lovely half-line – ” – their colours crucified.” I’ve never understood that need to kill something so you can admire it – or what’s left of it – when it’s dead.

    Liked by 2 people

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