Wye
River is morning sunlight, open again to the appeal of April warmth after a
cold night. Haphazard untended edges of hill garden respond to air networks.
Nasturtiums, only a few flowers, stream in ever direction their round leaves, and
from their white undersides white butterflies, two three, move about seeking
invisible je-ne-sais-quoi. Unwanted blackberry, scourge of the bush, takes
their fancy. They flutter toward wandering jew or investigate the
je-ne-sais-quoi of some clandestine weed, but return to the green dish-leaves
of nasturtiums, a favourite for some indiscernible reason, when a fourth
descends, antennae up, to these unlikely landing pads.
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