Flinders

Why are butterflies butterflies ?
And have been since Old English ?
And no, the Saxons didn’t call them ‘flutter-bys’,
Despite our wish.
Some are yellow, sure, but only some,
And gardens host more than a dairy –
Perhaps it’s simply fanciful and rum,
Like ladybirds are named for Mary.
P’raps the word trangresses,
Metamorphed from ones for ‘beat’ or ‘bug’ ?
But these are only ever guesses
Answered only with a shrug.
Other just-so tales are told,
Like witches flying in disguise –
But nobody, however bold,
Can pin down butterflies.
Yet why should language be so artful ?
Let it keep its logic pure,
Or else, like poets by the cartful,
All we get is endless metaphor.

But other lands are just as likely
To endow them with a role –
The Greeks would call them psyche,
Which they also called the soul,
And Romans said papilio,
The Portuguese say borboleta –
What they mean, though, we don’t know,
And your guess is no worse or better.
Spanish use of mariposa
Means ‘Maria, up and fly’ !
Italian farfalla shows a
Meaning shared with a bow-tie.
The Germans call one Schmetterling
For ‘cream-lette’, and the Russian word
Is babochka, for ‘grandma-on-the-wing’ –
Now this has got absurd !
Yet why should language be so frugal ?
Let it flash its colours high –
Or else, like Danish sommerfugl
All we get’s a literal ‘summer-fly’.

Throats

Damascene tiles, centuries old,
Victorian acquired –
Beautif’ly painted in blue and gold
As fresh as the day they were fired
Geometric, dense and hectic,
Begging to be admired.

But most of all, of all I love,
It is the birds that shine –
Each peacock, parrot, lark, and dove,
Are delicately fine –
With vibrant tints and eyes that glint,
Each heavenly divine.

And yet I missed, for all they shone,
(Had not the tour-guide said)
That ev’ry gorgeous bird thereon
Was elegantly dead –
A single stroke had simply broke
Each neck beneath each head.

Apparently, this trick was rife
Throughout the Eastern land –
In Islam, images of life
Were well-and-truly banned.
But corpses were quite de rigueur –
And here, the stiffs were grand !

But oh !, those crass colonials,
Those patriarchs on tour,
Who bought up ceremonials
From natives by the score –
They couldn’t see the subtlety,
Or else chose to ignore…

Without the least misgiving
They’d appropriate the style,
But paint their birds as living
On each modern-ancient tile.
Their arrogance had quite by chance
Now caused them to defile.

Or maybe they knew, and rejected –
Just took what they wanted to keep.
And who are we, self-selected,
To label them shallow or deep ?
Well, I for one, see much more fun
In birds who can still go ‘cheep’ !

Damascene tiles, centuries old,
Victorian acquired –
Marvelled, then improved, all told,
As their inspiration fired.
And we in turn must gaze and learn,
Then change to what’s required.

Work in Recess

This one’s for the redraft pile –
It isn’t good, but it is a start,
And I know there’s something worth-the-while
At its heart.

Somewhere in there, something good
(Not yet, but will be) sleeps.
I dare not wake it, even if I could,
In case it leaps.

No – let it lie – let it breathe
A month – or two – or six –
Let’s let it simmer, let it seethe,
And let its image fix.

Then pull it from the memory drawer
And shake it out beneath the light,
And get to work – a lot of work, I’m sure –
But not tonight…

Keydom

Keyring keys of ev’ry shape,
With some for deadbolts, some for latches –
Split-ring lodgers, each one waiting
For the only hole that matches.
Take them off the circlet, though,
And whether iron, brass or chrome,
They’re all alone and naked
With no hint to tell us where is home.
Somewhere, a patient lock is waiting,
But some keys hate to be tied down –
And keys that leave the ring of safety
Rarely ever will be found.
A life of orphan-hood they chose,
Who never will be collared through their bows.