many will know the beauty
of a butterfly's wing
and the delicate intricacy
of their decoration
those swathes of colour
meandering boldly in flight
a proclamation of
             their presence
             their providence
whose startling eyespots
can mimic the stolid gaze
of the stern and the alluring
observing in judgement
or perhaps in wonder
blinking only as they flutter
flattered disbelieving
yet there are reminders
in that Rorschach patterning
that those with ill intent
should observe
threats and
             warnings overlooked
by those in admiration
of such beauty
where few will heed
that gossamer fragility
broken by any
not considerate enough
in their handling

like pieces of a jigsaw
their faces were joined
interlocked in places
overlapping at others
like Picasso himself
had painted them
with linocut or oils
an imperfect portrait
harmoniously
                  asymmetrical
created by these two
fragmented profiles
lips interdependent
remaining in want
fulfilled for a moment
in this "their moment"
a cubist vision of beauty
not in appearance
or form necessarily
but in what it shows

she may have claimed
that she could always
find one of those rare
desperately sought
four-leaf clovers
amongst any cluster
that had sprouted
amidst the grass
and **** growth
of park or pasture
but never once did she
try to find one
for me

perhaps the moth
simply doesn't know
the strength of
its own wings
but the way it flutters
seemingly erratic
        in its choices
never straight forward
        in its direction
can be infuriating at times
as those silken sails
appear to force it
where none expect it to be
in disjointed circles
often far off course
only occasionally
will it find itself
exactly where it should be
whether accidentally
         or by design
its every path is filled
with calculated corrections
revisions and redress
in order to reach
its intended
that source of light
one way or another

the heroes of
those action movies
from the 80s and 90s
always looked
so much cooler
with their split lips
and bloodied noses
than i ever could
as they faced off
against the villain
   of the piece
bruised and aching
they would struggle on
regardless of pain
their success set back
but inevitable nonetheless

to be honest
i would love to see
one of those heroes
try to overcome
the villain
   of my peace
i've had plenty
of nose bleeds
through the years
but most of them
self-inflected

in my obliviousness
inadvertent and unintentional
some may say as usual
i disturbed a wasp nest
the heightened bombilation
an anger-pitched droning
unheard somehow
therefore unheeded
until that impolite *****
a warning sting
through t-shirt to torso
followed by a few more
in quick succession
set my legs moving
apologetically away
with hands raised
chastened and contrite
both in supplication
and in order to remove
the offending article
of clothing
the oversensitive wasp
having become trapped within
defensively stinging
as nature directs
to be honest
its overzealous instincts
began to feel
more like spite
than mere survival

thankful that
the promised storm
did not arrive
umbrellas were collapsed
used as walking sticks
or were discarded
as unwelcome rain
and clouds of grey
drifted apologetically
stood in expectant awe
we were rapturous
as blue skies stretched
from hillock to tor
to witness a cowboy
dressed in white
the hero-in-waiting
with a sunset
      to ride towards
his happily-ever-after
a pastoral beauty
in flowering green
inseparable thus far
tradition be ******
now adorned with
a bonded eternity
on their fingers
to match that
which is long-rooted
in their hearts