Phantoms Catch No Butterflies Poem by Thomas Golding

She creeps upon a midnight clear
three legs to pounce upon her prey
who always run away with ease
from my fearless tortoiseshell Dusty.

By day it seems no joy to stalk
the monarch slippery and swift
unseen leg and claws pass through
no phantom ever caught a butterfly.

She hunts and rends with deadly skill
paper balls on which lines are expired
remains of verse to toss before
my tripodal resident editor.

Laboured images lie in shreds
doubled spondees scratched asunder
no critic could wield so sharp a pen
as this cat of literary concupiscence.

Sated with verbs and bloodied nouns
sprawls growling as she sleeps
hunting poems with ruthless art
tomorrow's literary butterflies.