I return in reminiscence of Rifle House Cemetery where the annunciated turn of an iron gate launched a thousand and more butterflies towards the welkin.
Thoughts arrive like butterflies but don’t chase them away…hold them – as the bulldog keeps surfing.
My return home leaves me searching, a desire to return to my floating water nest, its lullaby an even keel and leveler of imbalance.
Dear sun, so happy you are here, near to my person, the ache is gone and I am again cradled in your arms.
Some, would say the shortest distance between point a and point b is a straight line…known too as the crow flies. I stumble with the latter for as the crow flies implies that said flighted one knows its distance, able to let go of distraction
For two days the sun hides behind the counter-battle of grey skies and clouds teasing a fantastical but never occurring downpour. But hare self has become unconcerned, the sun will return, the shelled ones are in command. I turn to ponder turtle and tortoise, the shells I have seen.
Colourful, large and fuzzy…their work is considerably important to all humanity. They are of the kind…the pollinators…without them there would be no crops, no wildflowers. Honeybees too are important, but bumbles can fly in cooler temperatures and operate with lower light levels. Honeybees and associated beekeeping was declared a war essential and beeswax was used to replace petroleum products to waterproof ammunition and as a replacement for sugar, which was rationed.