Pleasure to me is wonder – the unexplored, the unexpected, the thing that is hidden and the changeless thing that lurks behind superficial mutability. To trace the remote in the immediate; the eternal in the ephemeral; the past in the present; the infinite in the finite; these are to me the springs of delight and beauty.

H.P. Lovecraft
The Defence Remains Open!

Ephemeral

May 14, 2015

The Butterfly

He’s dressed like a big-game hunter,
but he’s looking for butterflies;

finding them too – a flutter of small blue
copulating among the clover.

Angling his shot and adjusting his lens,
he captures the moment.

Later he’ll transform the photographs
into paintings – gentle watercolours,

pale as his blue eyes. Yet, until we spoke,
I’d not realized he was so old – frail

as a brown fritillary – trembling,
struggling to hold the camera steady.

He says he comes here often: the habitat’s
second to none. I know – I live here.

Drawing the curtains that night,
I startle a painted lady at rest in the folds.

Later, half-slipping into sleep, I sense
the safety and warmth of her refuge;

remember a childhood game of ghosts
and the sanctuary under the covers;

picture a boy with a butterfly net
scaling the cliffs in search of a dream.

Carolyn King