A monarch flutters past overhead
as I sidle out the back door with a Saturday
load of washing. That way’s indoors, I say,
thinking the poor soul’s lost her way. She ignores
me, makes for the rafter, closes her wings
and that’s that. Hmm. We’ll have to see about
that, won’t we? Washing pegged, I sit
down for a bit of a think-and-try.
Out. A volley of will power.
Persuasion. Why settle for a hewn plank
when there’s any number of aesthetic choices
just past that door, filigreed buddleia inter-lacings,
definitive privet nooks, you name it, it’s yours.
Self-talk. Why not just let her be? Just a dainty
little butterfly.
Panic now. She could be here to die, could
flop down any minute, or desiccate and remain
permanently hung, maybe even turn to dust
sporadically sprinkling the floor. So? Ever heard
of a brush and pan?
By Sunday I’ve seen light. Not hounded, chosen.
Privileged to escort her to the gates of a nymphalid
nirvana. We are as one. She the triangulate
still-point of my ceiling, I honing breath
beneath. Monday morning, she’s gone,
vanished without trace.

2015