Painting ©Anastasiya Markovich
Lace wings it had, the butterfly,
pale and faded now that summer’s gone
and clings the mud of autumn.
Scraps, the colour of pressed flowers,
in the seething autumn earth,
remnants of a summer day.
Did the song end or did I stop listening
when the wind blew from the east?
Robin kept the notes for brighter days.
Lace and the ripple of music
run through the sodden grass,
and will you be there to chase the sun,
to paint the wings of butterflies
with rainbow songs the robin sang
when the dark is past and spring returns?