Seeing a butterfly die takes a rage and
plays agony, there’s no conscience you
can enlighten to free the sensations - it
is you in the throes of being suffocated -
yet beauty belies prone pain expressed,
a flicker of regret, pulsations of memory
suppressed by gliding free; wings won't
bear you away on this winsome prayer
And yet the reflections make homage a
satisfying way to what’s yet to come; its
a truth about longevity, that wink-of-eye
image never lost expressed, a candour
of who we were and what we meant for
each other back when mere butterflies
© 8 February 2015, I. D. Carswell
For May
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