(15/07/56 / Curragh Camp, Co. Kildare, Eire.)

' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' End Of Summer(For Scareltt)

Once with astonishment
I stole a butterfly

from the end
of summer.

I only meant
to borrow her

admire her
the miracle of her

smeared clumsily
across my child's hand

so that I could not
return her

to what little was left
of summer

leaving a jagged hole
in the time of the sky

where she should have
been

a box
empty of its matches

served as a makeshift
coffin

matches stuck in
fresh earth

like little red-headed
flowers

blazing all at once
her funeral pyre.

Often I steal
back to that moment

cut out of summer

the empty place she left
in me

seeing clearly
the butterfly shape

cut awkwardly
out of time

jagged at the edges

my mind seeing beyond
into the infinity of death

hoping her ghost
can forgive me.

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Comments (3)

Oh Donall I wish it was but one butterfly I had to make amends to. Insightful piece of beautiful poetry you have gifted us with here.-10
I loved hearing you read this last night. It is one of your most touching poems. xxx Jan
How I cherish the memories of every butterfly I have ever seen, and hope for forgiveness from those I hurt as a child...how I longed to capture their beauty, hold it in my hand...and hurt the thing I loved the most. But isn't that what we do to all those we love the most...hurt them the most? The depth of your insight never ceases to amaze me!