The Butterfly
I SAW a butterfly wing her way
Through streams of falling leaves,
Like coloured paper, crisp and light,
She dips and dives and weaves.
Foliage descends like deathly rain,
A bounteous cascade;
Yet marvel at that flight of life
The gods have surely made.
As leaves lie still and skeletal,
Their faces creased and browned,
Gliding softly on the breeze:
Freedom's child, unbound.
© Troy Southgate,