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Luke Ritchie
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Butterfly
I caught it with both hands,
my little butterfly,
I took it on a whim,
it caught me by surprise,
to find it on my path,
my sullen march to work,
I held it in my grasp,
like a flame so thin,
a flame that never burns.
I held it to my chest,
and smuggled it back home.
It shivered at my palm,
the thought of what awaits.
A sample on a board,
a piercing through the chest,
a steady hand to prise,
arms out-stretched and then firmly pinned,
pressed to the wood all waxed and stiff.
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Sometimes I fear I can't handle this,
the pace and scale of remorselessness.
Even the kids here would tear its wings,
rip out her colours all paper thin.
These are the things, you can't shrink from this,
weep for the stalk of a fallen leaf.
Take what I can and then leave the rest,
Holding it tight in one gripped fist.
I let her in my home,
let her find her way.
It's here that we'll forget
only for today,
Just within these walls,
she'll never see it all.
She's fading in my arms
with a breath so faint,
a voice that never spoke.
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