the painted lady butterfly
stiltstalk, struts around
the edge of
my bread and butter plate.
ballerina, delicate,
in black stockinged feet.
she is coy,
at present and has her wings closed and is only showing her,
mottled, brown, bathroom robe underside.
she preens across the plate,
to the sweet quarter of,
blood orange heaven
i was yet to eat.
her curlique tongue,
quests out, in hope of heaven.
allehlieu !
she finds sweet citrus juice,
much to her liking
and now a miniscule ribbon,
pumps and pulsates as she
drinks
her wings slowly open,
oh ! her iridescent wings,
blazing orange, amber
saffron and gold.
set well against,
the bold, blood citrus coral
on which she stands.
her wings, fabulous as they are, belie her underlying nature.
as they, flit and flutter,
in time with her greed.
and we are truly, mesmerised.
she withdraws,
the tongue,
a dance in itself.
a flex of fire
and then, she is gone.
and only the visual echo,
of sublime beauty is left,
resonating, in the summer air.