In the Spring of Five Hundred Tulips

In the Spring of five hundred tulips

the butterfly arrived again.

A brief flying visit

to examine the cherry and birch

before her summer sojourn.

I did see her.

I did not imagine her.

But that was weeks ago.

The tulips are fading now,

blown out, rusty at the edges,

pouting at the heat

creeping in.

We put out worms

for the birds, dried and brittle,

but it was the monkjack

who ate the tulips,

a feast of five hundred tulips,

while we waited and watched

the end of Spring.

Rain is in the earth today.

I am walking on rain today.

Hot yellow daisies grow fast
and thick around my feet.

And where the cherry tree stands,
the green is littered with white starlight.

Fallen blossom everywhere.

I am walking on stars.

And reading aloud from the stories of saints
to the listening birds and flies and worms...

I will be in hospital as you read this, attached to the drips for monoclonal antibody therapy.

I haven't been doing much lately, just hurting, like an ancient grandfather clock that needs winding soon. What is that lovely English saying? I am running Out of Puff!

So for now, I shall walk on a little more. On rain. And fallen stars.