Feb 2012
All seems quiet, peaceful,
as I flit across the meadow.
Yet, even now, the sun upon my wings
is overtook by shadow .
The wind grows strong and menacing,
and the day turns dark and odd.
Raindrops fall from heaven
like the weeping of some god.
I am a frail but living thing
determined to remain.
I must find shelter from the storm-
that much, at least, is plain.
Some say the flapping of my wings
gave birth to this mighty storm..
Iām no instrument of Chaos,
surely those who say it must be wrong.
Its far more likely that the storm
will cause my being to cease
than that the flapping of my wings
would ever mar the peace.
Was my end in my beginning?
Such thoughts are far beyond my ken.
But if my wings can cause such things
in my beginning was my end.
as I flit across the meadow.
Yet, even now, the sun upon my wings
is overtook by shadow .
The wind grows strong and menacing,
and the day turns dark and odd.
Raindrops fall from heaven
like the weeping of some god.
I am a frail but living thing
determined to remain.
I must find shelter from the storm-
that much, at least, is plain.
Some say the flapping of my wings
gave birth to this mighty storm..
Iām no instrument of Chaos,
surely those who say it must be wrong.
Its far more likely that the storm
will cause my being to cease
than that the flapping of my wings
would ever mar the peace.
Was my end in my beginning?
Such thoughts are far beyond my ken.
But if my wings can cause such things
in my beginning was my end.
Playing with thoughts about Chaos theory. I had my working title before I heard "Butterflies and Hurricanes" a song by Muse. Here I have adopted the point of view of the butterfly or perhaps Psyche. The last stanza is intended to echo T.S. Elliot's opening to "East Coker" and the reputed last words of Mary Stuart.
