Yellow

This is a clouded yellow year.
Their butter wings are spread out
to the sun.

They have flown a thousand miles
always northwards towards a brief spasm
amongst the lucerne and the creeping vetch.

We’ve found a tiny patch of paradise
in the local country park, the air is thick
with small tortoiseshell, brown argus.
The common blue with its outspread
wings is blue as heaven  amongst
the beating of whites and whites.
And then the shocking yellow of those
unexpected wings, its dashing flight,
and then, it’s down, folded closely.

It’s been a clouded year. Waiting for
the surgery to stop your heart – and mine –
from breaking. Sleepwalking through
the spring, the summer, and waking to
this benediction of yellow yellow yellow

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