The Butterfly
It lit on a leaf,
unfurling those brushed fur wings,
eye spots, golden in the sun
and blue and white lacings,
delicate and soft,
light as feathers,
downy
dainty
my
delight.
A tongue so fine
sucks the sweetness of a treat,
sown by the corn stretched meadows
the man made poisoned wheat,
the graceful wings close,
to open, to fly.
descends
drooping
and
dying.
By
Hilary Evans
