The Gathering

The brimstone comma dipped its orange tipped pen into the holly blue ink and wrote to the painted lady. Outside a peacock wailed as it welcomed the red admiral in his carriage. As it passed a tree a stray branch removed one of the small copper handles which fell silently into the dust.

The occupants who were sitting in their small tortoiseshell seats were unaware of this drama and their conversation was not broken. In the distance the speckled wood was nearly obscured by the heat mist that was beginning to cover the grassy valley.

Butterfly Station   

They remain sedate
in the sweetest buddleia
planning their dances of colour

Dances Communist

Their fragile movements
are witnessed
but not shared
as they require no partners

Forgotten Skin

Tired of display
they search for
their winter coats
which lay crushed
beneath their wings

Departure

They leave at night
and are often mistaken
for fire-lanterns
drifting in the breeze