Poem: Butterfly

The first butterfly of the year - here it is always a Peacock. They overwinter in the garage, and I must have woken this one up when I went to get some gardening tools.

Butterfly

the peacock on

the ice plant,

does it know

how beautiful it is?

The butterflies are back

The butterflies are back. A handful of tortoiseshells, a host of small meadow browns, all feeding on elder blossom, bramble flowers and honeysuckle.

Was ever  a gal as elegant as the honeysuckle? Who else could wear reds and pinks and yellows and not clash? And her perfume! A fragrance from my childhood, a waft of Somerset here in this Pennine valley.

No butterflies

The weather is unusually hot, over 30 degrees Celsius, and has been for a couple of days, with more to come. The jackdaws are feeling it, wobbling unsteadily on the rim of the bird bath and drinking deep. One stands on the ground for several minutes, its beak agape.  It looks dazzled and perplexed.

I take advantage of the heat to repaint the wooden tubs in my back yard. The paint dries immediately, takes another coat in twenty minutes.

Despite the cosmos and the buddleia, the wallflowers and fuchsias, there are no butterflies. Last year I saw dozens – peacocks, red admirals, tortoiseshells – but this year, not so much as a cabbage white. I hope the hard winter hasn't done for them.