Before I even enter the room I hear

the fluttering of tiny gossamer wings.

A butterfly appears to be hoping

that the window glass, at some point, will become

empty air. I fetch a tumbler, and place it

cautiously over the creature, which stills

as I lift it away and cover the top

with my palm. I can see now the butterfly

is a Painted Lady – that ubiquitous

migrant from North Africa – with its

variegated wings of black, brown, ochre,

olive and red, the subtlest of dazzles.

 

As if it were a primed grenade or rare,

exquisite crystal I carry the tumbler

circumspectly to the balcony.

The butterfly flies up, out, and not,

as I would have anticipated, hoped,

over jagged rocks and ragged seaweed

towards the meticulous horizon

across the bay – where a white hulled ketch

is anchoring, its starboard light pale

in the falling dusk – but back, over the roof,

where, out of sight, beyond a dry stone wall,

a wild bank rises of rosebay willowherb,

convolvulus and bracken, effulgent

beneath darkening sycamores and oaks.