They dance from nowhere planned,
these bright butterflies
in different colours,
sometimes in pairs or small groups
or in unexpected clouds.
Honoured by their flight,
the collector has shrugged off her net,
dropped her pins,
lost the need to mount them on the wall.
They flutter
and she stands in quiet joy,
knowing they are too precious
for descriptions,
watching the complex colours
in the rhythm of their airborne dancing.
Her stillness is all she has.
The quiet pond or branch
– who knows what a butterfly sees? –
her body becomes a welcome rest
for a landing delicacy.
She has no camera,
no precision in her recording,
just the soft touch of a pen
and the memory of wing-stroke.