Woven into the grainy monochrome
Of my childhood memories
There are butterflies.
More than you would ever see today.
Streaks of random colour,
Jubilant, frittering jazz riffs,
Throwing themselves into the air
And tumbling for joy.
They are long gone now,
Just one more dream
Of lost delight,
But today, on a soft grey morning,
The first three Burnet moths of summer
Slipped out of their cold cocoons
And danced bravely in red and black
Through the still, grey air of the cliff top,
To celebrate the past.