Clive Donovan
Butterflies
Two butterflies at school in our class
were about to hatch in rather small
glass holding jars.
I had loved the task of punching
holes into the crisp parchment lids.
Others had assembled stuff for food and nests.
From eggs to grubs to chrysalises
(Oh, such a magic word: chrysalises!)
we had watched their captured lives,
crayoned pictures of their mysteries,
now we waited for that rapturous unfoldment.
The first one stirred and flickered at the
milk-break then, for half the morning,
in an unusual holy hush,
a soft rustle could be heard as
papery wings edged out.
Two privileged children were chosen
for the glad chore of release,
the rest huddled at the door
and up the creature flapped to…
a shout and a swallow’s snapping beak!
‘It’s Doing its Duty to its Young’,
the teacher implored the distressed pupils,
seeking to extract at least
some tutelage from tragedy.
The second one was nearly ready
for its passage into the world;
exploring its own new-form body,
wondrous wings a-drying—Oh, but see!
Look, Miss—one wing’s stuck it won’t
come free! Oh, what to do?
Let it go! Let it be! The communal cry,
the rush to the playground—it can’t fly!
Safe from swallows and vicious swifts at least,
it stalked in crazy circles, then…
Learning whatever cruel lesson of life this was,
the sobbing children waved goodbye
to the brave, inflicted insect
as it marched with its single wing away,
staggered through the locked school gates,
zig-zagged into the cluster of mums,
astonished dogs, toddlers, prams.
Handicapped, askewed, and bent,
our butterfly, unquenchably,
barging aside astounded traffic,
dogged as a warrior,
dragged and delivered
its unflinching self to destiny.