Swallowing

Photo ©Rixonrixon

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Swallowtails butterfly

among grass stalks

winged meadow-weaving

 

sky’s aflutter

with sleek-feathered birds

shrill darts

blue

white-bellied

 

cloud-stitching

sky to meadow

with wing and needle tails

essence of blue and gold

sun and skyborn.

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Photo ©Andreas Eichler

 

 

 

Yellow summer

Sue Vincent reminded me today of the words of the immortal Tove Jansson “If the first butterfly you see is yellow, the summer will be a happy one.”

The first butterfly of this year was a Brimstone.

Photo©GeXeS

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For the dverse quadrille.

 

Yellow butterfly

citron on green

spring sprinkles golden grass seeds,

nectar-sipping from precocious blooms.

After winter torpor

wishing for change turns to fear

that the scales have tipped,

the year dripping like spilt honey,

rushing

on rapid wings

elusive as a citron yellow

butterfly.

Étain and Midir

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He took her for his second wife

as if she wouldn’t care,

that second wife would be enough,

as if first wife would shrug and turn

back to her broideries and her bairns.

He told her that he loved her,

and when first wife, in her jealousy

as was surely only right and just,

cast the spell that sent her fluttering,

bright butterfly-wings beating,

over the stormy sea,

beyond the reach of prince and druid,

he followed her, or at least he tried,

or at least he said he tried.

And when he took her back again,

years later when she had a life

as someone he had never met,

and found a love who cherished her

and kept her by his side,

he never saw how many lives

by his golden hand lay blighted,

never a frown creased his golden brow.

She followed him with backward glances,

leaving husband and her child,

because her prince would have it so,

and being golden and beautiful,

that is how the story fell out.

 

Such has ever been the way of the world,

and probably always will be.

Lace wings it had, the butterfly

Painting ©Anastasiya Markovich

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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?

Charcoal tears

Short poems from yesterday’s twitter prompts

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Happiness, fleeting as the glimpse

of a butterfly’s flickering flight,

while sorrow lies heavy as the grey sand

of the ocean’s lightless depths.

 

You are gone,

and spring rain scrawls charcoal tears

among the cold ash of love’s fire.

You are gone

and yesterday’s songs

pour through the rent in the clouds,

salt in the wound,

a mockery, hollow and brash

as the cold light in the sky.

 

Dark night when the soul cannot sleep,

and laughter taunts from the shadows,

I long to pass through the veil

and follow you into the light.

Butterfly

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Butterfly flutters over the wall

Tugged by a rogue sea breeze

Across the rippling mud brown river.

Butterfly flutters flickering on bright wings

Across the sun-dappled water.

How long, I wonder, can butterfly wings

Beat a steady course for unknown shores

Before they crumple, weary, upon a wavetip?

Bright wings turn black with distance,

Frail silhouette, still fluttering up and down

Searching for an elusive flower

Finding only the ripe salt smell of the incoming tide.