in the rain-streaked golden light
a butterfly was dancing,
wing-tips spilling sunlight
into the citrus sting of bitter-sweet
rippling along the jet stream.
Did it sense the fragrance
still wafting from the open greenhouse
door, that heady scent of leaf and fruit?
The swallows have left already,
waved farewell to summer’s short sojourn,
swooping to the edge of day, the wind
rising now at dawn. But what is left is this:
nights of stars, an orange glow,
the slow drift of firewood smoke –
and the music playing inside of us,
fierce enough to fade, stir again.
Copyright 2012 Louise Hastings