Sunday poem: Butterflies


Last in a series of wonders in his life

the splendour of butterflies

as if till now he’d only improvised


what he called God.

Through those black years

ploughing, planting, felling logs


in a raw and freezing country

living from day to day

on a herring and a piece of bread


through those grey years

when God was an accountant

in the stony capital


the gift lay waiting for this sun

now opening

silk and purpled wings


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