Butterflies

                                        i.m. G.L.

His emails came, shyly at first, as though
emerging from winter, testing
uncertain sunlight and the lengthening days.
Then drawings, scanned to screen,
his sheets of careful butterflies, their wings
a concentration of colour, each felt-tipped
within its printed outline. No explanation
of this struggle for neatness, nothing
about the stroke or obstinate practice
to make his hands behave again. Sometimes
there’d be a voice clip, his voice,
singing the lightest air.
Today his favourite duet (Pearl Fishers)
floats from the radio, catching me,
and I forget he’s dead. I printed out
his butterflies: so very frail, so necessary.

D.A.Prince

If you have any thoughts about this poem, D.A. Prince  would be pleased to hear them