Butterfly

Tiny specs of yellow

against the blue and disappointing sea.

A grey sky and a calm day;

almost millpond.

We hadn't worried about our cargo

as we returned on the falling tide.

And half way home,

a mile from shore,

a long way;

the butterfly crossed our bow,

skimming the homely miles;

rebuffing our last port of call.

Lapping and disappearing

into the reef.

No perch.

Yet what vigour;

what heart

pumps this dainty thing?

Wings of lace

to some purpose.

Radar and spark,

on a futile wind.

John H Davies

1^st X 2013