Did you ever, as a child, chase a butterfly,
A tiny Golden Birdwing, perhaps
Or a Bronze Roadside-Skipper?

Flitting, faster than an arrow,
Over a rusting wheelbarrow fortress,
Under an electrified washing line,
Dive-bombing plastic remnants
Of the light infantry,

Before spinning away,

Courting the breeze in a whirling dance,
Winged-eyes blazing bright as childrens' buttons,
Vanishing in a cluster of gold chrysanthemums,
Reappearing, fluttering freely,
From a sea of bronze fennel.

Did you dash dash dash,
Arms flailing madly,
Mouth locked in a giggling grin?

And did you ****** ****** ******,
Tiny hands grasping, clutching at air,
Desperate to hold natures princess?

Do you remember?

            Dashing,  Snatching,  Grasping,

And suddenly,

                          She      Was      Gone?

And­ did you dare peep, clumsily,
Into your tiny hands,
Between your fragile fingers,

Half afraid you missed her,
Half again, you may find her,

            Crushed  In  Your  Hands?

The quest for desire is a chase,
So demanding,
So determined,
So distracting,

Attainment without consequence
Is your end game,
And is all that matters

Until you face the consequence
Of your end game,
When all that matters

            Is  What  Remains  In  Your  Hands?