Writer’s Notebook: Butterfly


I watch a butterfly die in the corner
where the window frame meets the sill.
Dark green specks of mould against
peeling red paint. I hug my knees
closer to my chest. Its wings shiver
and puff and flicker against the glass pane.

As the breeze of blue and shock of yellow
rise and fall and feel the air
underneath for the last time, I think
of my grandmother’s brooch.

”I like your brooch,” I said.
Jewels in its butterfly wings sparkled
in the light. I took her hand with
soft veins and nails shiny for the night.

I looked into eyes that didn’t see mine
and said it louder.
“Do you?” she said, touching it.
“What colour is it?”
“Lots of colours.”

It’s the amber of a necklace she gave me
the green of the sea beyond Rhossili
the blue of my grandfather’s eyes
the pink of the jacket she’s wearing
the pale gold of the bay when tide’s out.

“Jack gave it to me.” Her hands fell
to her lap and her eyes filled with tears
as she looked away.

Writer’s Notebook – a series of posts releasing unfinished fragments into the world. Recognising the value in sharing.


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