Bridalflies

Bride seen from behind wearing a butterfly-embroidered wedding dress in a garden
AI has done it again…

Bridalflies

I can see the romcom now…

Felicity, a scatty dreamer,
Known as Flick, a rose-cheeked beamer,
At a wedding in Californ-aye-ay.
And after vows before the priest,
A thousand butterflies released
Bring gasps of awe, as the band strikes up with My Way.

Flick is spellbound, Flick is smitten –
She’s never seen the like in Britain –
How can she bring butterflies back home ?
And think – how much she loves attending
Summer weddings never ending,
Circling-round the brides as flit-wings roam…!

But a Google on her return flight
Soon puts her zigzag thinking right –
The monarchs and mormons and morphos are def’nit’ly out !
She has to stick to native species,
Has to find our cutest beasties –
The ones to make the congregation shout !

Brimstones ?  Yellow beauties – great !
But Flick will learn they hibernate,
And that is why they’re rarely captive-bred.
And swallowtails may look so regal,
But to capture them’s illegal –
No chance she can raise some in her shed…

And I can picture well the scene
Where Flick is sure she’s found her queen –
The gleaming, bridal-dancing cabbage white.
She doesn’t understand the panics
From the guests who grow organics –
How can such a small thing cause such fright ?

Or how about she comes to learn
Hey best bet for the least concern
Are admirals and peacocks – at a price.
Her flower garden trades it’s petals
Into beds of singing nettles
Just to raise the caterpillars nice.

And oh, what hijinks they’ll create
When Flick hears of a heavyweight
The elephant of hawkmoths – what a stag !
But noisy wings attract a buzz,
And hairy bodies ruffle fuzz,
And spiral mouthparts set some tongues a-wag.

But hey-ho, here’s the happy ending –
Emo goths with nuptials pending
Love these bugs with a heavy-metal twist !
And so she spends each wedding do
In vintage black all Summer through,
Until the credits roll – you get the gist…

Persuading the usually crepuscular elephant hawkmoths to fly during the daytime is not impossible, but after the initial burst into the air, they probably won’t flit around for many minutes before wanting to settle down.  If Flick is written as smart, she’ll have numerous pots of honeysuckle / jasmine / red valerian / fuchsia dotted about the guests, perhaps supplemented with sponges soaked in sugar-water, to draw the moths back down, and become an attraction in their own right.  She could even stray scented sugar-water onto the palms of guests for an even closer approach.

But if she wants a proper day-flying hawkmoth, she could consider the hummingbird variety – but it comes with its own headaches.  Natural England considers it a non-native, but frequent visitor and suspected resident.  So, she might fall afoul of Section 14 of the Wildlife and Countryside Act (1981) for the wilful release of a non-native species (or, more specifically, “not ordinarily resident in and not a regular visitor to Great Britain in a wild state”).  The trouble she will face is that the Act does
not supply a designated list of native species and does not simply declared any species not listed as illegal…

And does the law consider a species that arrives every year, and increasingly so with climate change, to actually be non-native in the first place ?  If she made a point of collecting her breeding population from individuals in Britain herself, and then contacts Natural England for clarification, they might tell her that they don’t think she’ll need a special licence – but this isn’t the same as saying her action is definitely lawful when the law has never been tested in this specific grey area.  Good content for a romcom, but likely to be pricy if she ends up in Crown Court as a test case  Perhaps she should just stick to the elephants…

Meanwhile, whoever organised this wedding was deffo breaking the law…

Chrysalis Cartographers

Photo by John on Pexels.com

Chrysalis Cartographers

When Luna Saturne hears her Dad
Complain of moths at work,
She wonders why this makes him sad
And not be quite the perk –
Because his line is publishing,
She somehow understands,
They must be atlas moths, whose wings
Are wider than her hands.
Their caterpillars take their chance,
As fat as sausage-rolls,
By hiding on the Swiss-cheese plants –
That’s why they’re full of holes.
She pictures them about the lift-shaft,
Drinking ink and glue,
And beating wings with such a down-draught,
Papers fly askew.
They’re dancing round fluorescent tubes,
And hogging AC vents,
And stealing wayward sugar cubes
For shredder-paper tents.
But soon her Dad must cut her cloth –
They’re smaller than she wished.
So now, it seems, both dream and moth
Must be downsized, and squished.

The Makings of an Artist

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The Makings of an Artist

I could have been a painter,
With an easel and beret –
See, I’ve got the temp’rament,
And dreaminess, and enchanté.
But I haven’t got the talent
Or the patience of a saint –
Yet I could have been a painter
If I never had to paint.

I could have been a sculptor
Pulling wishes from the clay,
Or a jeweller, or a tailor,
Had I diff’rent DNA.
For I have an eye for beauty,
And a right-brained attitude,
But I’m lacking the dexterity
To conjure up my mood.

I could have been an author,
Building new worlds ev’ry day –
But my penmanship’s too cryptic
For my words to have their say.
So I’m not in any brotherhood
Who share philosophies,
But I know where I belong,
And it’s with people such as these.

I could have been a pianist,
To score life’s cabaret,
If my fingers would obey me,
When I tell them what to play.
I’ve always had a poet’s soul,
It’s written in my glands –
But I cannot hold my destiny
Within my clumsy hands.

First Day Back

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First Day Back

The coffee shop is using-up it’s final snowflake cups,
But they feel like relics of another time.
The frost is colder now, yet the mornings maybe brighter somehow,
Though the streets are tinged with Winter grime.
As I approach my desk, there’s still a hint of picturesque,
As a few stray decorations dot-about.
But the chocolates have gone, and the dieting upon us,
As we all must learn once more to do without.
But at least we get to start the waiting year by looking smart,
That’s all courtesy of presents and the sales.
Though I gather by the sounds that the cold is on its rounds,
While the post-room brings a late card, postmark Wales.
My meeting-planner grows as my inbox overflows,
And the old year’s calendar goes in the bin –
As the phone are busy ringing and the copiers are singing,
And at last we fully let the new begin.

The Deal

Artist at Work by Norman Rockwell

The Deal

A life of drudgery down at the office,
For a middle-class semi with a fence and a lawn,
With kids in school and a well-waxed Morris
And two weeks of sun – to payback for the yawn.
That was the deal – the promise of Capital –
One wage to raise a family of four,
And careers of tedium, long and unflappable –
Safe from starvation, detention, and war.
All over now.  The deal is defaulted –
All of the grafting, none of the perks.
The overdose of greed saw progress halted,
As the wageslave’s lot is lost in the works.

Ragged

Pietro Miliani’s Paper Mill in Fabriano by anon

Ragged

This sketching-pad was once a shirt,
This watermark a tablecloth –
The threadbare rags of moth
Shall live again.
As paper of the better sort,
Quite fit for constitutions,
And for banknote distributions –
It’s in the grain.

Yet when the papers bear the news,
The ‘rags’ are from the gutter press –
This label calls them worthless
In one gulp.
Strange, how the insult goes,
Yet fittingly, it also lied –
We’ll find no cotton pride
Within their pulp.

Ravelling

detail from John Kay, Inventor of the Fly Shuttle by Ford Madox-Brown

Ravelling

Penelope just cannot seem
To stitch the seam to stop her shroud –
She warps her wefts and weaves her wools,
And intermingles through the crowd.
But somehow, she can’t cast them off,
Who lurk around her loom –
They watch her fingers thread and pull,
To work the fabric of her tomb.

What a Pointless Waste…

What a Pointless Waste…

You advertised a vacancy,
And I, with hope, applied.
I sent you my complete CV,
And I never even lied.
I’ve oodles of experience,
I’ve done the thing you do –
But the algorithm closed the fence
Without an interview.

I guess a hundred thousand others
All could do your job
So how am I to rise above,
The ever-hungry mob ?
I guess I’m lacking bullshit,
And my buzzwords are too few –
So the algorithm doesn’t hit
My name for interview.

I send out applications
For the slightest likelihoods –
But they only yield frustrations –
Cos I’m clearly damaged goods.
I guess by now I should have learned
My usefulness is through
As the algorithm once more spurned
My chance of interview.

You advertise a vacancy,
And I, with gloom, apply –
Though it’s only a formality
That makes me even try.
For the algorithm, it appears,
Just loves to turn the screw,
And will never in a thousand years
Bestow an interview.

Jethro’s Toll

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Jethro’s Toll

(In reply to Farm On The Freeway)

I’m not a fan of the big road pushing through the valley floor –
It should have been a high-speed rail line.
But just what have you got against a chip-set factory ?
And the jobs that get to work while you just whine.
I guess the loss of green and habitat’s a shame, for sure,
But your farm was pretty monocultured too –
The world needs fewer humans, as I hope you would agree,
And a lot less of consumption, making-do.
We haven’t all got daddies leaving farms to us, and more,
No, we many have us very little leeway.
So take your million-dollars and your nimby don’t-tax-me –
Cos this ain’t your farm no more – now it’s our freeway.

Confession of a Faithful Husband

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Confession of a Faithful Husband

I do love my wife, I don’t hide my ring –
But the thing is, she’s not here.
I get so lonely on endless business trips,
So short of cheer.
Then Rachel from the presentation
Pops into the bar,
And the smiles come all-so-easily
On the verge of gone-too-far.

But I, it seems, with my guilty conscience,
Cannot just kick back,
And seize the moment, live the day,
With Zoë in the sack.
I reckon I could have been that hound,
I could have learned to lie –
My wife would never even suss,
If I’d grow the balls to try.

Somewhere in his hotel room tonight,
There’s another me
Who’s shares his bed with maybe Jane from Sales,
And with liberty.
I hate him, and I hate how I envy,
While chatting with Charlotte in red,
And I try not to give-off some signal of all that
I wish we were doing instead.

I do love our wife, I remind myself,
As I think how he’s not alone.
We’d both spent a hour in the bar with Kaz,
As we muted our mobile phone,
With plenty of eye-to-eye, and gin,
And far too at-our-ease –
But where he fulfilled his promise to Kaz,
I proved to be just a tease.