Butterflies 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.
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.
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Thank you 🙏🏻. Old poem I rediscovered today. I agree with you, find those old Victorian collections very disturbing.
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There is no beauty in a crucified butterfly. I find those old Victorian collections very disturbing as well.
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