Butterfly (April)

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.

Butterfly (March)

Impossible to know why people chase butterflies. They are a colourful moth because they live in daylight, flutter like banknotes left to the wind. The Rothschilds collected money but one descendant collected butterflies. Miriam lived in the English countryside, a professional entomologist. Entomb-ologist it could be said. Her collection grew until she was made a Dame of the British Empire. Her sister was a social butterfly. Pannonica collected jazz musicians in nightclubs, so was technically a social moth. Her friend Thelonious played piano more unpredictable than the march flight of any insect. Notes accumulate, drift, dart, leaving us wanting encores.