One late September morning
Under skies as grey as steel,
I looked about me and found
no vestige left of summer.
In the corner of my eye
danced a flash of coloured flame.
As one late seasons’ butterfly
Ribboned in the air.
It floated down so gently.
On wings of dusty softness,
Hovered above a dry teasel stalk.
I watched it for a count of ten.
Then my eyes followed it skyward.
This delicate creature flickered
incongruously in the air.
It saddened me to see it fly away.
To lose this spark of colour on a day
That was a dreary monotone.
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