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.
By David Selzer